Night of Voids
by xxxRagexxx
Summary: In a small town where young people are constantly going missing, Gilbert Nightray - the son of the towns wealthy Baron - meets the elusive Oz Vessalius and an unlikely friendship begins to grow between the two. But both are keeping dark secrets from one another. Meanwhile, their own families are keeping dark secrets from them. GilxOz (Full Summary info inside)
1. Disclaimer & Summary

**(This is for the whole story) - Disclaimer: I don't not own Pandora Hearts or any of its characters.**

**Summary:** In a small town where young people are constantly going missing, Gilbert Nightray, the son of the towns wealthy Baron, meets the elusive Oz Vessalius and an unlikely friendship begins to grow between the two. But both are keeping dark secrets from one another. Meanwhile; their own families are keeping dark secrets from them.

**Rating: M**

**Story:** A/U

**Time Period:** Late 1800's in a place I made up (Probably not going to be 100% historically accurate)

**In regards to character's ages:** Everyone in this will be their "physical" ages. Meaning that Gilbert is in his early 20's and Oz is still in his mid/late teens.

**Warning:** Mature Themes/ Eventual Boy/Boy Lemons etc. The warnings will be more elaborate as we approach the chapters. I don't want to give too much away now.

**Themes:** This story deals with some heavy stuff. It also hints at a past "relationship" between **Vincent and Gilbert (as brothers). But nothing too explicit between them**. Also, there is mention of church and Bible stories and stuff. Please don't take offense to that, its just a tiny plot driver.

**Other Tidbits: **Slight _very slight _Black Butler Crossover, but those characters don't really become relevant till later in the story.

Overall, this story is a bit darker than my last one, so I can't say it's for everyone. Then again, for those who read/are reading the last one know that I tend to dip into darker themes eventually. I really hope you guys like this one.

Enjoy

-Rage


	2. - Prelude-

**:::::::::::::::::::::_Prelude_::::::::::::::::::::::**

He probably belonged there…mostly because he shared much in common with that little town he lived in.

Just like the town, he was insignificant and constantly losing an innocent piece of himself. And the various empty spaces in him were relentlessly growing wider as he grew more accustom to living in a perpetual state of resonating incompletion.

But his story doesn't matter at the moment. All that one should know is that Oz Vessalius was full of voids, and so was Yawnington Creek.

The small aloof town bustled with elusive dwellers that seemed to be wary of the sun as much as they distrusted the night. They had every reason to. Because when the night came, it crept in like a starving tide. And once every so often, it chose to sweep something away, something precious.

The night would take the children.

It was as if a wave of darkness tugged at their ankles and snatched them into a sea of never-ending midnight. And by the time that dawn broke, it broke black. It was a shame that the sun was always the first to discover what the night took away. It casted it's soft sleepy gaze onto empty beds where younglings once slept. But the sun was also cruel, it was the first to know who was gone but the last to tell you where to find them.

But…nothing was ever completely gone. Just like there was no such thing as a complete void. There was always traces left behind, tiny fragments that proved that there was once something there.

And voids…always held the potential to eventually contain something.

**::::::::::**

He probably belonged there…. mostly because he shared much in common with that little town he lived in.

Just like the town, he was overlooked and full of too many secrets. And the secrets he carried seemed to multiply the more he realized that it didn't matter to anyone that he had them.

But his story doesn't matter at the moment. All that one should know is that Gilbert Nightray was full of secrets, and so was Yawnington Creek.

A town full of helpless people who were victimized and had no control over the plights that befell them, or did they? The smart man would know that it wasn't that simple, just like living there wasn't a matter of being affected or unaffected. It was a matter of _knowledge_ and how much of it you disclosed and who you disclosed it to.

And most importantly, it mattered what people did with that information.

Secrets in the town were both private and public. Usually because people were always closer to the truth than they allowed themselves to believe. Any man who claimed he didn't know much about what was going on usually knew the most; it was simply a matter of how well that man hid that knowledge from others and from himself.

But…nothing was ever completely hidden. Just like there was no such thing as a true secret. There was always a vague awareness regardless of where you hid something, because the things around it always knew it was there.

As for secrets…they always ceased being such when more than one person had knowledge of them.


	3. On Empty Evenings

**:::::::::: On Empty Evenings ::::::::::**

_I'm gonna be late again_

He bit his lips a few times to get the soft peach color to flow into them. Then he rubbed some of the dusty streaks off the small mirror in his room, being careful of the small corner crack it had. He salvaged it from the garbage once his father found that there was no need for such a thing to stay in the house any longer. According to his father, his mother had been dead for years…so there was no need for vanity of any type.

He took in the clearer view of his reflection, wishing he knew how to sow because the missing button on his white shirt was unbecoming. He frowned, fiddling with the button-less gap in his shirt before simply pulling it down some more to smooth it out; allowing it to lay flat.

He looked down at his wrinkled slacks, they were still a little damp from the quick washing he gave them the night before, but with some more sun they would surly dry by the time he reached his destination. And hopefully…some of the wrinkles would disappear with the dampness.

A light sigh, and a glance around the small room caused his green eyes to spot his _good _shoes-his Sunday shoes. The only good ones he owned, in fact. Even after two years of owning them they retained some of their original shine. He wasn't allowed to wear them anywhere else but church. But today he would break the rules, just like he did last time, and the time before that. Because his beat-up boots just wouldn't do. No not for something like this, not to meet _this _person.

"_Oz, I..um…I'd like to see you again,"_

Today was special because he was going out, and his father was passed out on his bed and wouldn't realize he was gone. Today was going to be great actually.

"_Ok, let's meet here from now on, beside the mill."_

He struggled to squeeze his foot in the last shoe, feeling his toes crowding and pressing up hard against the toecap. Secretly, he hoped they would be sitting down most of the time so his toes wouldn't blister and bleed like they usually did when he wore them.

The blond reached under his bed and took out a small glass bottle of rose water perfume. He used it sparingly. Truly, perfume wasn't something he should have had in the first place. But thanks to the rich people who had forgotten such a treasure, he owned it now. He was glad he had it as he smoothed some on his hands and patted it over his clean hair, and around the back of his neck.

Quietly, he opened the creaking bedroom door, trying not to sweat in his shirt as he carefully made his way past his father's bedroom. The man's door was cracked so he would have to be quiet. He took another step, and then-

"Where are you off to?"

"I was going outside for a while. I wanted to meet up with Leo," he said meekly, eyes downcast even though he wasn't in the direct presence of the intimidating man he call his father.

"Did you go to work today?"

"Yes. I left the money on the table."

"What about those dishes?"

"I did them this morning,"

"And the laundry?"

"All done."

"Don't lie. You know how I feel about filthy habits."

Oz considered this for a moment, not knowing if the man was referring to not liking a dirty house or not liking to be lied to.

"I'm not"

"…."

"Um…was that all?" he asked, voice timid.

"…."

"Ok then. I'll be home soon."

Oz dashed for the rickety backdoor door, not allowing his father to hold him up any longer. He couldn't risk the man actually getting out of his bed and looking at him all "dressed-up" for no reason.

If that happened, well, that may be the end of Oz all together.

Once outside he walked across their patchy lawn and exited the fragile wooden gate. He ran down a checklist in his head, making sure he didn't forget anything. Last night he put his "real" clothes in the shed in preparation for when he returned for today. As long as his father didn't find them he'd be fine when he got back home.

**:::::N:::::**

Gilbert slammed the door so hard that he swore the whole manor shook. Possibly it was just him that was shaking. He let his back fall against the wall for a minute trying to keep his temper from escalating. He squeezed his eyes shut, suppressing the oncoming migraine. And as usual he was having a hard time breathing.

That place was so damn _suffocating_. It was always so dark in there, like the manor was filled with thick brown smog.

Oppressive.

Unbearable.

If only he had been more vigilant, if only he had anticipated the possibility of the man waiting in the front room for him.

"_Going somewhere?"_ his brother's disembodied voice had floated up from the couch, wrapping around Gilbert like a tight noose. Vincent's voice was coy, yet mocking all in the same. And maybe, just maybe there was a twinge of hurt there as well.

If he was "hurt" Gilbert pretended he didn't notice.

A light chuckle came up from the couch, "_Off to see that blond boy again?...If I didn't know any better, I would say you have a thing for blonds."_

Gilbert felt that rope tighten around his throat - binding, inescapable. Even though Vincent couldn't see him, his jaw still clenched as he glared coolly at the back of the couch.

The next thing he knew he was in the back hallway leaning against the wall trying to collect himself. He pushed off the wall and walked through the poorly lit corridor.  
Strange how dark the house seemed even though it was a beautiful day outside.

Once outside, he took in a fresh breath of air, filling his lungs to the brink. He let the warmth of the late summer sun hit his face as he looked up at it. It was bright and refreshing. Reminding him of the one person that seem to burn away the rope threads that bound him to that place…

He was always eager to see Oz; it was the only thing he looked forward to all week.

Pulling a cigarette from his pocket he lit it as he made his way over to the horse stable. His eyes held a new determination as he walked. He forced the negative feelings out of his body, refusing to carry them with him on his journey to see the boy.

Simply speaking, he would not allow Vincent to ruin this for him.

**:::::V:::::**

The moment he saw Gilbert standing patiently at the mill, Oz stopped walking and simply observed him from a distance. It was still hard to believe that he was acquainted to someone so beautiful, and a _noble_ nonetheless. Gilbert was a quiet young man and very much reserved. Some might even label him as serious, but as Oz got to know him better he found that to be inaccurate description. Gilbert knew how to laugh, no matter how rare it was for him to do it. And his gentle smile could never belong to someone that didn't have a heart soft enough to let his face break into happiness.

The raven was very well dressed, and the type of handsome that some would find startling because of how uncommon it was. With his sharp golden eyes, and his wavy black hair…

Gilbert was twenty-four and stunning.

Most of all, people would misread his silence for indifference, when in actuality he was just a very shy man. The way he would blush if Oz complimented him, and the way he cleared his throat uncomfortably when he would tell Oz he liked the sound of his laughter, or the green color of his eyes.

"GIL!" Oz ran up the steep hillside, his excitement obscuring the pain his shoes were causing him. He stopped in front of the man completely out of breath, "Sorry I'm late."

Gilbert's gold eyes looked him over, a serene look appeared on his face before he looked away suddenly; blush appearing before his words, "I'm glad you came."

The blond smiled, "Me too," Oz was always fascinated with Gilbert's reactions. They were always so… visible. Oz was tempted to call them "over-reactions" because of how easily it was to make Gilbert flustered and embarrassed.

"So… what do you want to do today?" Oz asked, walking over to Gilbert's black horse and petting its nose softly.

Gilbert mounted the horse before helping Oz to sit behind him, "We could go to the theater," the raven suggested.

Oz went pale, glad that Gilbert couldn't see his face "The Theater?" _Why does he always suggest things that cost money!_

Gilbert nodded, "I already have tickets,"

"ah…really?"

The man lightly flicked the reins against the horse. As it trotted down the small hill Oz forced an answer to leave his mouth.

"…ok. But the next time we meet it will be my treat."

Gilbert simply chuckled at his comment, making Oz feel slightly insulted.

"How is that funny?" the blond asked, beginning to sulk behind him.

"I enjoy treating you. Actually, I wish you'd let me do it more often."

It was Oz's turn to develop redden cheeks as he took a chance and held onto Gilbert from behind, feeing the horse gain more speed.

**:::::V:::::**

Gilbert was…a bit of a celebrity when he was in town. Not in the way that people would swoon and bow down to him on the street, but mostly everyone knew who he was. He was the "youngest" son of the Baron, and although he would not be the one to succeed his father, his blood was noble and people in the town were highly aware of that.

For this reason, Oz always felt a bit awkward when they were in town together. Some people would stare at them, wondering how a boy like himself would be walking so casually with a high-ranking official. But, Gilbert ignored the looks, to the point that Oz began to believe that the raven was unaware of the attention they received from time to time.

On the other hand though, before he and Gilbert officially met, Oz had been in town and saw the stir that was created when the Nightray Brothers were together, or if Vincent was out alone. Now THAT was a sight to see. People would crowd around the carriage or stop walking and stare at them. Some days Vincent would wave kindly as he strode through town on his white horse; always dressed elegantly yet a bit oddly given his dangling ruby red earrings and flowing gold trimmed garbs.

::::::::::

Once they arrived in the theater Oz had to force himself to keep still. This was the first time he had been in such a grand place. So the elaborate decorations and velvet red curtains amazed him as they took their seats in a private booth on the balcony. He was surprised how many people had come out for an afternoon show. His gaze trailed over the people below them, seeing fancy dresses and men in business suits. He tried not to look nervous when the man came over to them and asked them if they wanted any refreshments. Gilbert paid for a bottle of chilled sparkling, non-alcoholic cider, and a plate of watercress crackers with thinly sliced salmon and parsley.

For a moment Oz just ogled at the expensive snack, until Gilbert smiled softly and told him to dig in. He nibbled lightly on the delicious food; feeling like it was far too good to be eaten by someone like him. While trying not to shovel it down and reveal just how hungry he was.

Soon, the play was already in full swing, and Oz could barely concentrate on the storyline. The actors were dramatic, and the audience laughed at some points, but all Oz could do was focus on Gilbert's closeness and the rush of heat he felt when the man's leg accidentally brushed against his.

About halfway through the play he felt Gilbert lean over to whisper in his ear.

"Are you Ok? You seem tense..."

"I'm fine. Just tired I guess."

Gilbert blushed a little, shyness taking over him suddenly, "If you want… you can…um…"

"Use you as a pillow?" Oz said in a jokey whisper, not really thinking that's what the man meant. Shock flooded him when the man gave a hesitant nod.

Oz looked at softly him for a moment and something in him scolded him when he _dared_ to lean to the side and rest his head on the man's solid chest. But when Gilbert pulled him closer and smoothed his hand in his blond hair all self-criticism was silenced, as his body surrendered to a type of sweet soft touch that he had never known until that moment.

From what he could remember, no one had ever held him close before, not out kindness or comfort. Perhaps his mother did when he was little, but those memories had long been forgotten. Affection was a foreign concept, and he felt himself go weak with a sad gratefulness as he began to understand what it meant to receive it.

When he felt the man place a few chaste kisses in his hair, he couldn't stop the fragile whimper that left him. Delicate fingers cling softly to the man's shirt as he pressed his face into the man's chest. His eyes were watering for reasons he didn't want to think about and when the man called his name with concern he couldn't get an answer past the large lump in his throat.

For the first time in his life…someone didn't hesitate to embrace him.

Gilbert simply readjusted them so he could hold the boy closer and rest his chin in his hair. And as he laid in his arms the sound of the play seemed to melt away. Exhaustion from early morning chores and strenuous work catching up to him as he fell into a comfortable slumber.

**::::::::::**

He woke to the sound of applause and shuffling. That's when he realized that Gilbert had put his black overcoat over his shoulders as he slept against him. When he slowly pulled away from the man's hold, he whispered as quiet thank you and instantly felt guilt eating at him when he remembered the fact that he basically wasted the man's money since he fell asleep during the play. But Gilbert didn't seem to mind, the man appeared satisfied that Oz had gotten some rest.

As soon as they left the Theater together Oz noticed the pain in his feet again, sharp and brutal. The blond tried to keep himself from walking funny, but Gilbert caught on fast. The man stopped next to small bench and called Oz over.

"Oz, come sit down for a minute."

Oz titled his head quizzically before walked over and took a seat. His heart began to race in nervousness when Gilbert knelt down before him and took one of Oz's thin ankles in his strong hands. He lightly pinched the top of the shoe to feel where Oz's toes were.

Gilbert looked up at him, "These shoes are too small for you."

"They're my favorite pair, thought I'd keep'em for a while," Oz smiled widely hoping the man would drop the issue.

"They're obviously hurting you, you shouldn't wear them anymore,"

With that Gilbert stood up and extended his hand for Oz to take.

"Come on," he said as Oz took his hand.

"Where are we going?"

"To get you some new ones," the man said the words as if it was the most logical and normal thing to do. And Oz panicked. He let go of the man's hand and backed up a bit.

"That's ok; really, I have like…a million at home. And my Dad said he'd get me some more soon. Anyway, it's getting late and my father said he was making a big dinner tonight."

Gilbert looked dismayed by this, and a little concerned, "Let me give you a ride back then,"

"No," Oz said a bit too fast, "I mean…I like walking and um…" he already screwed up too bad, it was time to cut this short.

"Thanks for today…I'll see you next Friday, Gil," Oz looked around to make sure no one was watching before he stood on his battered toes and gave the man's soft cheek a quick peck.

They were both blushing when he pulled away.

"Bye, Gil," he said with a light smile and a hushed voice.

**:::::N:::::**

He felt himself slightly reaching out after the boy; unconsciously taking a few step forward watching Oz's retreating form before he caught himself. His cheek was warm in the spot that Oz had kissed it and he felt weightless for those moments. As if he was hovering.

It took him a minute to mount his horse again, suppressing the sudden wave of lonesomeness that entered into him when he could no longer see Oz in the distance.

He wanted so badly to go after him, to hold him close again even if it were for a moment. When he held him that day, a million questions burst in his head. The way the boy reacted had him worried and ashamed that he didn't know more about the mysterious green-eyed beauty.

The thought made Gilbert's heart sink. The boy was an enigma. He was a puzzle that worked very hard to disguise itself as an open book. One that was easy to read.

But he wasn't.

He never talked about his family. And since he only mentioned his father Gilbert assumed the boy's mother had passed on, or was somehow no longer in the picture. He also assumed that Oz was an only child, since the boy never mentioned anyone else living with him.

He found it odd that Oz never let Gilbert give him rides home, or pick him up from home… even though the Gilbert was more than willing. He had little to say about his friends at school (with the exception of Leo who he mentioned quite often) and even less to say about the school itself.

"_My school? Oh….its near the hollow hills. St. Peter's Academy."_

"_Do you like it?"_

"_Yeah, I guess so…it is what it is…"_

There was never any normal complaints about teachers, not a single mention of homework, or a qualm about an up coming test. It was almost as if….

Gilbert sighed. Who was he to get so stirred up about Oz keeping a few things private? Gilbert had a million things he wasn't likely to ever tell the boy. Things he would never tell anybody.

But there was one thing that did bother him the most. Oz never talked about his hopes and dreams for the future. No matter how fleeting future desires were, everyone had something, even if it was constantly changing. There was always some "ideal" that people wanted in life. But when Gilbert asked him…his green eyes went completely blank, like someone wiped the life from his face.

"_I don't know, Gil. I never think about stuff like that,"_

"_How come?"_

"_More people end up disappointed that way. It's better to just accept whatever happens… and find a way to be ok with it."_

It was upsetting. Oz was only 15 and he was talking like that…as if he didn't even believe he had a future. Like he wasn't expecting to live past tomorrow. Gilbert was deeply disturbed, and determined to find out more about him. After a month of meeting, it was pathetic that he knew so little about the radiant beauty who captured his heart since the first time he saw him.

**:::::V:::::**

After seeing Gilbert, his walks home were always an emotional challenge. Someone would argue that he _ought_ to be walking on air, feeling light and cloud-like, perhaps even giddy.

That was a misconception, though.

He only felt that way on his way to see the man, and being next to him amplified that feeling on ridiculous levels. Especially now that he felt what it was like to be in his arms…

But leaving his side was a whole other matter entirely. And it came with it's own set of emotions.

It was always during the walk back that he was forced to confront all the little lies he told throughout the day. With every step he was shedding the façade he made and reclaiming his dim reality, while readopting his grim thoughts.

_The hell am I doing getting wrapped up in this…I shouldn't have let it get this far…if only I didn't feel this way for him…I could just…_

Oz sighed as he went through the broken gate and forced himself to go through the motions.

First, he snuck into the small shed they had and changed into his usual raggedy clothes: a torn shirt, ill-fitting slacks, and his ugly brown boots (his only other pair of shoes). He almost laughed bitterly when he got into the kitchen a remembered what he told Gilbert earlier. There was no "big dinner" waiting for him…

There never was.

There never would be.

His father wasn't even home yet…thankfully.

Oz felt his stomach growl as his eyes fell on the table. It was exactly the way he left it- minus the bit of money he earned that day. There were a few carrots and some cabbage left over from the days sales. So he grabbed a few and chopped them up, then stated a pot of water on the stove.

He sat at the small table, and put his head down while he waited for the water to boil. His weary mind floated around, thinking of his little sister and how much she used to enjoyed cooking. Even though she had been young she still knew how to cook well. Always managing to make something wonderful no matter how little food they had.

His cooking could never compare…

**:::::N:::::**

He should have expected this.

The moment he walked into his bedroom he could feel Vincent's presence before he could actually see him. So then the task would be locating him. He was liable to be on Gilbert's bed, or in the armchair. Gilbert tuned on the oil lamp and looked toward his bed. His guesses were wrong; the man was on the floor today. Curled up sleeping soundly with a teddy bear that was missing its ears and one button eye ripped out.

He knew his brother's excuse would be the same_, I don't know what came over me. I suddenly needed to lay down….you know I can't control it, big brother._

Vincent always used his "condition" as an excuse to somehow fall asleep in Gilbert's wing of the manor. The doctor said he had a rare disorder one that caused him to fall asleep almost anywhere at any point in time. Sometimes he'd be asleep for a few minutes, nodding off in the middle of conversations, and sometimes for hours.

No too long ago, Gilbert would let him be and sleep beside him or pick him up and bring him to his room. But he stopped doing that months ago.

The raven opened his mouth to wake the man up, but turned the light off instead, and walked out of the room. He would sleep in a different part of the house tonight. A part of the house Vincent wasn't likely to find him.

**:::::V:::::**

His body became tense when he heard the heavy steps approach the kitchen door. He didn't turn around and greet the man, he just continued stirring the soup in the pot.

Soon, his father came up behind him, his shadow looming over Oz for a moment before he reached up and grabbed a mug off the shelf. Oz held in a sigh when that heavy shadow disappeared.

He heard his father take a seat at the table, and the sound of the newspaper rustling. Oz knew he shouldn't have relaxed completely, especially when the man spoke.

"Why do you smell like that?"

He stopped his stirring motion, heart suddenly pounding, "Like what?"

"Like flowers…like _roses_."

Oz's brow creased in thought for a moment, forcing his hand to keep stirring the soup, "Leo's mother hugged me before I left today. It's probably her perfume."

Oz was tempted to turn around to see his father's expression. Instead, he froze when he heard the man push his chair back. He suddenly felt off balance when he noticed that shadow approaching him again. Right away he looked up when the man's arm was above him. In his hand he held a familiar glass bottle. And his green eyes watched as the fragrant perfume was slowly poured into his soup.

_**PLUNK! **_

Oz instantly moved back when hot soup spattered out at him after his father dropped the glass bottle into the pot.

He watched the man retreat back to the table and bury himself in the newspaper again as if nothing happened, "Enjoy your dinner. Be sure to eat all of it," he said with no anger in his voice, never once glancing at the boy.

Oz looked back at the pot, swallowing back tears as he slowly grabbed a bowl and a spoon from the shelf. He blew out the fire on the stove before he poured some of the soup into the bowl and sat silently at the table across from the man.

Three hours later, when he hovered over the toilet in the latrine and heaved up the tainted soup…his only thought was that he was lucky that tomorrow wasn't Sunday. Because if it were Sunday, his father would still force him to go to church regardless of what condition he was in.


	4. In Purged Places

**:::::::::: In Purged Places ::::::::::**

He didn't know where he had been placed in the grand scheme of things. When it came to his family, he could never know his position or better yet _why_ he was placed in it. Actually, he did know why. It happened too quickly almost; by the time Gilbert was one and a half years old, Vincent was born. And from that moment on Gilbert was instantly displaced.

His mother and father were ecstatic about the "trait" Vincent had. Their great-great-great grandfather had those same bi-colored eyes, and thanks to that man the Nightray's were as wealthy and well off as they were – practically in control of the city. But it wasn't just that that made the distinction between Gilbert and his brother. His parents believed early on that Gilbert was too sensitive, too emotional. And even though Vincent was younger, his personality held promise.

Vincent was a natural leader. Thus, they replaced Gilbert without a second thought.

Gilbert never questioned whether the "personality difference" was simply an excuse to further justify their decision. All Gilbert understood was that his brother would eventually lead the family. Vincent would take the head position that had been Gilbert's birthright. When his parents made that decision Gilbert and his brother were still extremely young, so the public hadn't actually seen them yet, making it easy for his parents to pass Vincent off as the oldest son. It was an ingenuous plan. And best of all… there was no harm done.

However, it was in those first five years that Gilbert became a shadow. He was the one in the room that no one ever noticed, the afterthought.

"_Gilbert?! Vincent, where is your brother?"_

Sometimes they would call for him, forgetting that he was playing quietly on the other side of the room, or behind the large couches they sat on. And Vincent would narrow his eyes in contempt for them, "_Are you blind? He's right _there!" he'd point.

They were always misplacing him.

It was understandable though. They didn't know what to do with him now that he was of no use to them. But he still had some kind of place back then, even though everyone forgot what and where that was exactly.

As he got older, their forgetful treatment of him became commonplace.

Even their governess and tutors forgot about him. In the elementary school levels when he was about 6 years old, Gilbert and Vincent had been on the same learning level. To be precise, Gilbert was actually further along than his brother. But as time past the less the teacher would help him understand things.

Gilbert began struggling with arithmetic, and reading became much more difficult for him.

"_Hold on just a moment. Let me finish explaining this to Vincent."_

Naturally, they put their focus on his brother. They knew that Vincent's knowledge base was more important since his place in the family was more important. Vincent needed to _know_ things. He needed to be "in the loop," kept up to speed, so the velocity of his learning would set the pace for him to always keep things spinning in the future.

And when they felt that Gilbert had fallen too far behind, they simply stopped teaching him. The teachers didn't have trouble convincing his father that he was merely _remedial_.

So, when his brother was sent off to study, Gilbert was sent off to play.

In their early adolescents Vincent always wanted Gilbert with him when he was forced to begin attending political meetings. And Gilbert obliged him. But the other nobles would look at him strangely, as if to say, "_Aren't you a little…out-of-place?"_

He was out-of-place…he'd admit that.

The nobles always talked about things like investments, and community development, legalities, and civic duties. It was all over Gilbert's head. He realized that the times Vincent wasn't with him must have been the times that they were teaching his brother all that stuff.

Vincent always looked bored in those meetings, falling asleep more often then not. His brother barely said a word, but yet never looked lost in the conversations either; even when Gilbert struggled to follow along.

If anything, the one thing Gilbert always appreciated about Vincent was that the blond never rubbed it in his face. Never once had his brother taunted him about his lack of knowledge, or made fun of him when his father told people he was "slow on the uptake" - simply because he didn't have much to say or because he hadn't learned much in the light halfhearted education he received.

Overall, the main thing that Gilbert had learned in his life was that there was no place for him. He was _placeless_ …with two small exceptions.

The first exception was when he turned fourteen. But…thinking about it now gave him violent and debilitating migraines, to the point that he'd be incapacitated for hours. He couldn't remember why that place was quickly snatched away from him before he even had a chance to fully understand what it was. No one ever told him why he needed to train as a marksman. And no one ever told him why they suddenly didn't need him to train as one anymore. The only thing that was evidence of that "place" was the silver gun he always carried on his hip and a few scattered memories…mostly of the man who treated him like a son.

And as for the second exception, it was the place Vincent gave him-a place in his bi-colored eyes. But Vincent also didn't hesitate to tell him that that would be the _only_ place for him…the same place that Gilbert would learn to forever stash his secrets in.

**:::::V:::::**

When it came to communication, his father tried to use as little words as possible. If he could avoid speaking to Oz all together he wouldn't hesitate to do so. Most of the time, it seemed like it pained the man to even have to look in his direction. So it was rare that eye contact was ever made between them.

It could be said that when Zai did speak to Oz, he spoke to the boy's "presence" not to him directly.

At the moment, Oz was washing out his breakfast plate. It was hardly soiled because burnt toast with no butter didn't make for a messy meal. As he added a few extra rubs to the plate he focused on building up the courage to address the man who was sitting at the table reading the G_ood Book_ before Sunday morning service.

"…um" his voice shook a little, then he steadied it, "I saw an ad in the paper yesterday. They just built a free charity school across town-"

"You won't be attending," and that was that.

The man drank back his tea, put his cup on the table and walked out the kitchen door. Oz's eyes drifted to the spot that the cup rested. A surge of something hot and vicious pulsed through him, enough to make him approach the cup and grip it in his hand. But he suppressed the urge to hurl it into the wall. Instead, he calmly walked over to the washbasin and placed it inside.

He looked out the dust kissed kitchen window and glared at his father's disappearing form. As he did he figured that maybe the "avoidance" was mutual after all. He barely looked at his father either. When he did, it was either a quick side-glance at his side profile or he would be talking to the man's back.

Never in the eyes.

He continued to observe him, noticing that the man was wearing an expensive looking overcoat that almost reached the floor.

_That's new _the thought was slightly bitter, slightly numb.

The man's cane shined in the sunlight and his top hat was dust free. Looking at him, no one would have guessed that he lived in a tiny old animal-less farm and that his son was made to dress in rags and remain barely above literate.

His father was deeply respected at the church, and an active member of the church council. He was so active, in fact, that some nights he wouldn't come home. He was part of the prayer circle, donation sect, and the planning and construction group.

What did this mean? Well, it meant two things. For one, it meant that he didn't really have a paying job. Their only source of income was the vegetables Oz grew and sold in town. And two, it meant that the only time he would concern himself with Oz was when church was involved.

He required his son to attend every Sunday (Zai would always leave before him). Making sure Oz wore one of the three sets of church clothes that Zai once owned and had tailored to fit his son. And most of all, that those clothes were clean and pressed.

Zai had everyone at church convinced of his son's devotion to the _Good Book_ and a good days work. To them, Oz had been blessed with "a calling" one that told him he was needed in the vegetable fields, with one hand dug in the rich soil, and a till in the another. According to the story, the "call" was so strong that Oz couldn't delay the need to answer it.

And Oh goody! Even though he was at the top of his class he just couldn't wait to _beg_ his father for permission to dropout of school at the ripe age of nine. Just so he could commit himself to cultivating the beautiful land and make more nourishing food that all could eat.

Because of this, people at church thought he was special. He was one of the fortunate ones. Mostly because the good lord didn't just talk to _anybody_. You had to be special, or you just had to be the son of the most respected man in the church. And everyone knew that those with "a calling" didn't need school, and they didn't really need friends either. They were put on this earth to _work_.

"_How's those potatoes growing this season? You'll bring in a good harvest I hope?"_

He had repeated that false story a million times over, hearing himself ramble about how much he loved farming, how he didn't miss school because it took him away from the fields.

"_That's __pretty hard work you've been doing there. Keep it up."_

Whatever lies his father whispered would enter in one of Oz's ears and exit through his mouth. And the insults and threats that were weaved into those same whispers would be flittered through his teeth. Building up and sliding down his throat until he wanted to choke on his fathers hatred of him. And from constantly biting back the truth for the sake of keep up appearances.

Honestly, the contradiction boiled down to this: At church Oz was wholesome and blessed...

At home he was a dirty mistake.

**:::::V:::::**

"Come on, come on, Leo needs a good friend to come over more often. He's always stuck in the house reading. I won't take no for an answer!"

Most of the reason he was able to go to Leo's house was because sometimes after Sunday service Leo's mother nearly kidnapped him. His father knew it would look odd if he refused to let his son go, so he simply nodded and Oz was quickly on his way to his friend's house.

Leo's mother was a sweet woman with a heart that resided in the church. But more importantly, her mind resided in human understanding. There were many reasons Oz could use to try to rationalize her insistent kindness. But one reason rang the truest; she was one of the only people who could see what kind of man his father really was. Like a stained glass window, she seemed to have the ability to spot all his true colors with fast paced ease as if it were obvious.

Though, she had never said this, not to Oz and certainly not to Leo. It was just evident in her gaze whenever her eyes would fall on the man. And it showed in the way her shoulders would fall in relaxation when she saw Zai walk away without his son, and how they tensed up when Oz was about to return home for the day.

He and Leo had been friends for many years. And he was one of the only people Oz got to socialize with. Leo knew a lot about the_ real _Oz. But there was still some things that Leo didn't know…

"Hey, I need your advice on something," Oz said, while hanging upside-down from a thick tree branch; Sunday shirt constantly sliding up as he hung there.

"Hm?" Leo responded from the ground, about ready to climb up the tree too.

"So…I met someone, and I really like this person. We decided to meet up every Friday so we can hang out."

"So what's the problem?" Leo asked, finally making it up the tree and sitting next to the hanging blond.

"This person's, like, really rich. And they don't know what kind of family I'm coming from."

"Oh, I see," Leo adjusted his glasses, "First tell me who it is. It's not Sharon Rainsworth is it?"

Oz laughed,"No, I gave up on her ages ago. But if I tell you, promise you won't judge me or anything?"

Leo gave him a bored look, "Have I ever?"

Oz huffed and righted himself so that he was sitting up again. "Alright... It's Gilbert."

"Wait…Gilbert!" he nearly screeched, "Like, as in, Gilbert _Nightray_? _Thee_ Gilbert Nightray?"

"Yeah," Oz blushed shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"This is a joke, right? You made this up so you can get a good laugh didn't you."

"It's the truth."

"Gilbert is interested in YOU. Wow, that's the biggest lie if I ever did hear one."

"Why would I make this up?"

Leo was silent for a moment, finally deciding that the boy was telling the truth, "And he doesn't mind that you're um…"

"Poor?"

"Yeah…."

"Well, that's what the problem is. So far, I've manged to hide my social status. But I'm running out of clothes to wear."

"Why don't you just tell him the truth, you'll have to sometime."

"Yeah, I know. But I don't want that to be a distraction. I want him to see me as a person, and not a potential charity case."

Leo smiled widely, "I guess today's your lucky day."

"What do you mean?" He said to the raven haired boy.

"I have a bunch of old clothes that my mother wanted me to give away, you can have some if you want. I'm sure you'll fit them since you're a bit smaller than me."

Oz visibly brightened, "...you'd really let me borrow some clothes?"

"You can keep them. But that doesn't mean I agree with you lying to Gilbert forever. Part of who you are is your background and your history. Even if you hide it, you're robbing him of the opportunities of getting to know the full you. And if he really likes you the way you say, he'll like you after you tell him the truth…no matter what that ends up looking like."

Oz nodded sadly, "I know...I'll tell him eventually, just not right now..."

**:::::V:::::**

Leo lived in what Oz would consider a "real house." With its fresh white paneling and large windows. It was complete with four bedrooms, and an indoor bathroom that even had a flushing toilet! Instead of the small wood-burning stove Oz was use to, Leo's house was warmed with large fireplaces. Even though it was a silly reason, the main feature that made his house so "real" to Oz, was that it had an upstairs and a downstairs.

Leo was an only child, and his family's middle class status was obvious.

When they got upstairs to Leo's room, he had a variety of "good shoes" that he let Oz try on, and they fit just right. And while Oz was in the middle of trying on one of his friends blue button up sweaters, Leo spoke to him in a quiet voice.

"You know, I'm still kind of surprised about Gilbert liking you…I couldn't picture him being interested in anyone."

Oz glanced over at him, "Why's that?"

Leo shrugged, continuing to look down at his book, "I heard rumors about what goes on in there..."

"In the Nightray Manor?"

Leo nodded and Oz plopped down next to his friend on the bed, laugher in his voice, "Don't tell me, its the one about them being in a pact with the devil or something, right?"

"No. But I did hear about that," Leo smirked at that before he became serious again, and quiet.

Oz was growing more curious by the minute, "If its not that rumor then which one is it?"

His friend looked uncomfortable suddenly, "It's nothing. Don't worry about it," Oz could tell that Leo had forced himself to lighten up and change the topic.

"Hey, you should stay for dinner. My mother's making Shepard's Pie."

It was those words that forced Oz to acknowledge his deep hunger. But his father's voice appeared in his head. _Don't even think about going around acting like you're hungry….You won't have people thinking that I'm starving you._

"Nah, my father would kill me if I ate over anyone's house. You know that."

"But," Leo looked baffled, "If you don't tell him how would he even know?"

"Believe me...he has his ways…"

Oz pushed away the thought of what happened last time he ate at Leo's house. His father had unconventional ways of checking things like that. If Oz couldn't retch up anything after shoving his finger down his throat then his father knew he was telling the truth. It was simple, really. It only got complicated when the man accused him of being too gentle and replaced his finger with the skinny end of a long wooden spoon.

**:::::::::**

When night came, Oz snuck outside and gathered the clothes and shoes that Leo gave him and hid them all in a better place. His friend was a lifesaver, truly he was. This was important to Oz on many levels that went beyond maintaining a good impression.

Some people may not understand his reasoning, but in the end of the day Gilbert was still older than him. And worst, Gilbert still knew what it meant to be a big brother to someone - a _wealthy_ big brother. It surprised Oz when the man told him early on that he was actually older than Vincent, but he failed to elaborate as to why Vincent was next in line to run the city. Oz didn't probe him for answers but he did store the information away to analyze it later; like at a time like this.

For Oz, being slightly older, wealthy, and a big brother was a bad combination of elements because it gave way to things like "the mentor complex" which could potentially reduce Oz to the title of a "tag-along" - a young fellow that needed a person to help him get through the rough patches in life.

_Gross_. The thought made him cringe.

The last thing Oz needed was a mentor. Actually, the last thing he _wanted_ was a mentor. It was possible that on some level, with the way his life had gone so far, someone would argue that he might in fact need one. But he didn't want Gilbert to be that person. He most certainly didn't want his money; and he'd absolutely die from disgust if he received his pity.

Oz looked over at his Sunday shoes in the corner. The raven had commented on them, ready to get up and buy him more in a half second. This was complex. Was Gilbert concerned for his comfort, or did he somehow figure out that Oz was full of shit and was dirt broke?

An affectionate gesture – or a charitable duty?

_Whatever_ - he surly would not show up at Gilbert's side in those tight, tiny ass shoes ever again. But having more clothes and shoes didn't solve the problem of having no spending money when he was with the man. Gilbert liked to do lavish things and Oz always felt like a loser when he couldn't foot any of the bill.

He sat down heavy on his thin bedding. He reached under his bed and brought out his ink well, feather pen, and paper. He had less than a week to get some pocket change. And selling veggies on a street corner was not a way to more money, especially because his father took the money he made. And asking his father was out of the question.

He put his pride aside for a moment, and placed his pen on the page ignoring the familiar rumble in his stomach. Even if they actually had something to eat in the house (which they didn't) it was too late to rummage through the kitchen. His father would complain that he was being noisy and "eating up the house." It was an odd choice of words because his father _never_ partook in eating the little bit of food they had. Oz always figured that the man must eat at his meetings at church.

_Dear Uncle Oscar,_

_I hope this leter finds you well. I was wonding if you coud help me with somthing…._

Oz stopped writing. He looked down at the letter and decided to crumble it up and toss it across the room. Frustrated and embarrassed he grabbed his potato sack pillow and flopped down and covered his head with it. He knew there were spelling errors in the letter, it was just hard to find them. And he suddenly couldn't bring himself to ask for help, even though he knew his uncle would help him.

Besides... even if he wrote the letter he didn't have any money to buy a stamp.

**:::::V:::::**

The lines would blur sometimes, between who he was and who Gilbert was. Oz sometimes forgot his place. He could tease Gilbert for hours on end, or coerce him into playing a game of tag until the sun went down. But the moment that they parted, Oz reverted back to what he was, and so did Gilbert. Oz set off on foot, in his friends old shoes, while Gilbert mounted a sturdy full bred stallion.

Oz was in the class of the forgotten, the _lowlies_. He was part of the street runners who took up far too much space to justify their supposed "petty contribution" to society. And there were random moments when he would remember his place. It would happen at the oddest of times. Like when he would steal the raven's hat from his head and then run away along the side of the lake. Unfortunately, he'd catch a glimpse of himself in the water, and would stop running suddenly; all his playful confidence would drain out of him when he considered himself -his _real_ self.

When Gilbert's reflection appeared beside him the sharp contrast between them made him feel immobile. Gilbert's dashing black and white garbs, compared to his lent homely get-up; it just became too overwhelming for him to maintain his thoughts sometimes.

"I thought you'd give me a better chase than that."

"I went easy on you today," Oz said as he raised his arms and took Gilbert's hat off his head, standing on his tiptoes to place it back on its rightful owner.

"It belongs here anyway," the blond tried to keep his smile from flattening too quickly.

When he turned to continue walking he felt a gentle weight return to the crown of his head. Oz stopped walking, reaching his hand up to touch the rim of the hat in surprise. Gilbert's warm hand was still on top of the hat as well, and when he looked up at the handsome man Gilbert smirked gently. Eyes soft and golden.

"I like the way it looks on you."

Oz continued to stand there as he watched Gilbert walk a little ways ahead of him. He felt something move in his heart. It was times like that, that made Oz's thoughts of one day kissing the man seem less out of reach. Because Gilbert would always re-blur the lines again when they would become unbearably and uncomfortably clear.

**:::::N:::::**

To think, there was once a time that Gilbert never made him wait. Never made him _want_. Gilbert was always at his every beck and call, at all hours of the day, everyday. The raven's eyes were always on him, exploring him…wanting him. They were brothers for a reason…only they could gave each other everything that the world could not. That's until...his dear brother suddenly started watching the world instead of Vincent.

Vincent was being replaced.

"Master, are you in there?"

"…Go away, Liam."

The servant opened the door anyway, looking toward Gilbert's bed.

"Sir, why aren't you dressed yet?"

"Because I don't feel like it. Cancel the meeting."

"But sir, everyone was planning to be here in a few hours,"

"_I don't care_. Tell them I'm ill."

"Please forgive me. But we only have a few days until-"

"Do as I say," he threw a cold glare over his shoulder, "Or I'll make you regret disturbing me tonight."

"Yes, Master," the servant mumbled before shutting the door quietly.

The blond turned over and snuggled deeper in the blankets.

And waited.

**:::::N:::::**

When he walked into his bedroom that night he almost forgot he had a brother. His mind had been filled completely with that green-eyed beauty. And filled with the fresh image of him looking down into the water with the most defeated look in his gaze. The mysteries around the boy were growing, and Gilbert was finding it hard to wait for the boy to start revealing them. Perhaps he wasn't doing enough to get Oz to open up to him...

When he turned on the lamp, what greeted him would have surprised anyone, but not Gilbert. He still blushed, and a shiver still ran down his spine and a knot still wound up in his stomach (he'd never tell you whether or not it was a shiver and knot of disgust or pleasure). But he wasn't surprised by what he saw. For him, it was just another typical suffocating night at the manor.

It seemed befitting actually, that his biggest secret preferred to dwell in the dark.

"Mind putting some clothes on?" he said to the mostly naked form in his bed. Vincent looked over at him. His blue short silk robe hanging seductively off his petite shoulder.

"I thought you'd like to have a drink with me tonight."

Gilbert glanced back at him as he took off his overcoat, lightly noticing that the silk robe revealed a large portion of the blond's thigh. He stopped himself from following the trail of skin upward.

"Thanks, but I'll pass."

Vincent scoffed softly, disappointment clear in the abrupt way he got out of Gilbert's bed and began fixing his robe to a more decent configuration. Every movement was short and held a sharp annoyance.

When he looked back at Gilbert his words came out like venom, "I swear…sometimes I wonder if you're even a Nightray…"

"I didn't know being a Nightray involved sleeping with my brother," the raven shot back calmly, no longer looking at the man that was now approaching him.

"It doesn't necessarily. But everyone knows we have a hard time turning down beautiful things."

Gilbert sighed, "Are you finished flattering yourself?" he asked, proceeding to take off his shoes. He tried not to think about the fact that his bed was likely to smell of Vincent now, like late spring violets. And he hoped Vincent didn't leave any surprises in his bed, like mangled stuffed animals or a pair of sharp scissors under his pillow.

"...My big brother doesn't think I'm beautiful anymore? Is that why you're always going out trying to search for something better?"

"I haven't been searching for anything," Gilbert said, trying to move around his brother so he could get to his armoire. But the man stepped in his way.

"Then that blond brat you've been seeing doesn't count as anything?"

"He's not a brat,"

When Gilbert tried to walk around him, Vincent got in his way once again. Out of frustration, Gilbert quickly took hold of the man's shoulders, ready to push him out of the way. But he stopped. He couldn't ignore the slight gasp that the man expelled as he held him there. Nor could he deny the upset look in his gaze.

As if it was instinct, Gilbert brought him closer. Searching his bi-colored eyes carefully, _deeply_ – the way he would have but a year ago.

Perhaps he missed something...

Maybe he was wrong to give up on him.

He allowed his gaze to probe the man's eyes again. But no, he wasn't wrong.

There was still nothing there.

Vincent's eyes narrowed, "What is it you see in him?"

Gilbert swallowed hard, voice low and rough "Everything I'll never see in you," with that he averted his gaze and let his brother go. Vincent stumbled unceremoniously to the side, having to use the bureau for support to prevent the potential fall.

It was silent for a few moments.

As Gilbert looked through his armoire for something to wear to bed, he didn't even bother looking over when he heard the loud clattering throughout his room. He didn't need to look to know that his brother had ripped the curtains from the window throwing them to the floor before knocking off all of Gilbert's books and things from the shelves before he disappeared from the room. Leaving destruction in his wake.

Yes, it was just a typical night at the Nightray manor.


	5. On Discarded Days

**Warning: mild violent content.**

**:::::::::: On Discarded Days::::::::::**

It was Friday morning. And there was the barest tap-tap on his window. It was soft and lacked urgency.

Something with wings was in his room.

Or whatever it was…wanted to come inside of it. Oz was too tired to check which of the two desires it was.

It was way past his usual wake up time. Usually, he was up an hour before the sun. And by now he should have already taken his normal cold bath in the tin tub outside behind the wooden partition. Day in and day out the water measurements were always the same: one part warm water and five parts cold. There was no time to boil hot water and wait. Ever since he could remember he had taken cold baths. And he knew only a liar would tell you that you get use to such an early morning shocker. Some may say it left them refreshed, but it only left him feeling frozen and jaded.

He'd scrub himself raw with thick unscented soap. It was the basic and boring kind. Also the only thing his father wouldn't hesitate to bring home with him.

"_Here. Use it to help remove some of that filth you carry,"_

After his bath he'd shiver his mostly wet body into his clothes. Then he'd brush his teeth with the wide frayed toothbrush. The chipped wooden handle always poked into his palm and the bristles were browning. Compared to his fathers pristine swine bone toothbrush, his looked like a smaller version of a tired hairbrush. And he hated that a few bristles always ended up floating around his mouth and poking him in the gums, making them bleed or mixing with his morning mint tea. On a good day, the bristles wouldn't scratch the side of his throat when he swallowed.

The two minutes he took to look out the window and drink his tea was the only still moment of his day. In those two minutes he would stand at the sink and think of nothing. It was necessary, because thinking led to feelings, and feelings led to mornings like the current kind he was experiencing.

To be able to do the things he did everyday…he had to work hard to achieve a certain level of mental detachment. Actions had to be routine and reflexive. You couldn't think about it too much and expect to have the day end quickly.

Oz sighed and turned onto his stomach.

In pre-Gilbert days, delayed mornings happened more frequently. He would wake up and go back to sleep for a few minutes, or just lie in bed and quietly relish in his own secret empty agony. It was like a plant that he nurtured and watched grow over the years; feeding it with his own dismal thoughts and feelings.

That smiling, responsible, good-humored version of himself had no place in the bedroom on those mornings. And that optimistic person everyone _thought_ they knew... he himself did not recognize when the sun finally forced its way into the sky…and he found himself lying in bed detesting the idea that tomorrow came.

It had been quite sometime since had a morning like this, but somehow it felt different this time. Maybe because today was Friday and his father made it clear last night that he was to come straight home from work today. And when he got in he was to _stay in_. No "visiting Leo" and the man provided no explanation as to why.

Cloudy, yet familiar thoughts were dimming his eyes even though the faintest new sunlight was streaking through his room. Options began to fill him, ideas of sorts. Like…what if he decided to just not get up today? Running the risk of his father finding him just laying there lazing about had a possible benefit. It could possibly spark the man's repressed hate-rage against him. And maybe if Oz could just get him angry enough…

He turned onto his side, dim eyes on the door.

Was it even possible to make the man snap? His father mastered a ridged sort of self-control over his reactions. Jaw locked, shoulders back, eyes stern. He was a smile-less sort of man. Voice never above a tight type of monotone that vibrated across the room like a low voltage current; if you weren't on guard it would shock you if you heard it float through the never-ending silence.

His use of words was almost as limited as his emotions. Oz wouldn't dare say his father had more than two moods. He was either apathetic or mildly irritated. The difference was so slight you could only detect it in the deep slices at the end of his words or how clipped the invisible punctuation points became as they passed through his lips.

And to compliment his moods he also had two types of silences. The first was his _disregarding silence_- that's when he knew you were in the room but he didn't care. The only sound he'd emit at those times was a cough or a low clearing of his throat. Oz learned many years ago that it was a signal to leave the room quickly… for he was not wanted there.

The second type was what Oz had to worry about; the _scheming silence_. Triggered by Oz's response to his father's rare and spontaneous questions, if and when he had them.

_"Why were you late coming home?"_

"_My wagon broke down, I had to stop and fix it."_

_"..."_

On the bold occasions that he would look over at the man's face he would notice that that kind of silence was accompanied with evenly pressed lips and a few solid nods as if he finally understood something. That's when Oz knew he was in for it….it was just a matter of when. Would the punishment be delayed, swift, or would it come in waves?

For that particular incidence it took three weeks before he was punished for it. On a random Tuesday he came home from work and noticed that the pots and pans were missing. Nothing was exactly ripe enough to eat raw from the vegetable patch, so snap peas from the garden became a temporary snack. One he used to keep himself from passing out in the hot sun from hunger and weakness.

By the seventh day with no cookware, he had quickly concluded that his father was trying to kill him. And for some reason, Oz was okay with that. On day ten the pots and pans magically appeared again. But by then it didn't even matter...

Oz had advanced past the stage of simple hunger and his body finally rejected the thought of eating. Even the snap peas made him sick by day six. So he continued on the way he had been - he didn't resume eating. Not bothering to sautéed, boil, or grill one veggie. By day sixteen he found himself pruning the tomato patch and his father appeared before him.

Out of respect he stood to acknowledge him, but was struck down before he could stand at full height.

_"I will be the one to tell you when you can and cannot eat."_

His father had been merciful. Besides the mouth full of dirt, and busted lip, the man had been gracious enough to toss a few coins on the ground so he could get some more food from the market. Deliriously, he gripped the coins and cradled them against his chest, appetite renewed..because maybe his father could be kind after all.

Or...maybe he was just embarrassed that Oz's stomach had been growling too loudly in church that past Sunday.

The sun was finally spilling into the room and Oz either felt like a coward for deciding not to test the man's temper, or a love-struck fool for wanting to remain in existence long enough to see Gilbert once again. Maybe if he asked nicely, Gilbert would hold him close the next time he saw him.

If he saw him...

With a moan of displeasure he put his bare feet on the wooden floor. Too tired to even stretch out his muscles. That taping at the window started up again, drawing him to the glass. Sunlight poured into the depths of his green eyes, and he took in the sight of a tiny tan moth crawling on the opposite side of the windowpane. It wasn't the kind of moth that he was used to, with wings that pointed downward. This one could easily be mistaken for a butterfly that wasn't blessed with color beauty. If he had to describe it in one word…he'd call it _cute_. It was tiny, with a furry middle, and it seemed persistent in it's attempts to get in the room.

It was strange because he thought those things were only attracted to the light…and his home seemed to lack that in every aspect. He found himself opening the window for the sole purpose of trying to startle the thing away from the glass.

There was no reason for it to want to come inside a place like that.

As he predicted, it flew back suddenly. But he didn't foresee it flying into his room before he had a chance to close the window again. He frowned when it flew straight to his wall. Licking his lips, he decided to keep the window cracked; surely the thing would leave soon enough.

But it lingered as he walked in and out of his room that morning, seeming to watch him go about his daily routine. It danced around him every so often, and he knew he must be lonely because having it there made him smile for some reason. If the thing was smart though...it would be gone by nightfall.

**:::::N:::::**

Friday just wasn't enough anymore.

These days, his blood began to itch for Oz by Sunday, and by Tuesday he was grinding his teeth, until they started feeling wobbly. On Wednesday afternoons his nails were almost gone, nail beds ripped up and bleeding by dinnertime. And by Thursday evening the anticipatory caterpillars in his stomach would burst into butterflies one by one and wake him up more times than he would care to admit.

Thank god it was Friday.

Gilbert put the last red grape bunch in the basket and wiped the counter down with a cloth. It was still too early to meet up with the boy but he would leave early anyway and get some fresh air. He needed it.

The past two weeks had been dreadful. He had tried and failed to be everywhere that Vincent was not. But his brother seemed to turn up around every cluttered corner and appeared to be lingering in the murkiness of every doorway.

It was a large manor they lived in but clearly not large enough for Gilbert to avoid him.

The frequent run-ins had only given Gilbert the chance to notice that his brother seemed to be a bit more…_awry_ than usual. The abundance of scissor-slashed objects in the house had grown in ways that were beginning to concern the raven. His brother's bad habit was usually restricted to his room, and to his own personal objects. It had been a contained addiction, one no one knew about besides those living in the manor. But now, Gilbert would find himself in the living room looking through shredded drapes and following a trail of cotton stuffing leading to lacerated leather couches.

It was startling to say the least. But it was also not Gilbert's problem. And that's the thought he left the house with; a full picnic basket under one arm and a wild pulse beneath his skin.

**:::::V:::::**

"Good Morning, Oz."

"Morning," he smiled feebly at the girl across from him and slowly started unloading his wagon. He was already late, so there was really no need to rush. Just like him she was setting up shop for the day. Arranging the colorful flowers on her stand in what she thought was an appealing fashion. The girl had never missed a day of work and was always there before him, even on weekends.

She was either extra devoted or extra poor. He believed it was the latter.

By the afternoon, his eyes leaked with boredom when he watched the edges of her tattered dress cling to her legs when the wind swept by. He had gotten into the habit of avoiding looking in her dark eyes at all cost, because they were like dark brown onyx stones absorbing all the energy around them without anyone noticing. Well… he noticed, and he didn't like it.

The way the girl watched him made him hyper aware of himself, like she had scoped out all the particular empty places in him and curiously poked at their boundaries. As if comparing the vastness of his suffering to that of her own. He was making assumptions of course, but they were well-informed assumptions; there were slippery secrets knotted in with the flowers in her hair, each one tied tight enough to keep the whole truth from slipping out.

And that was fine with him because he didn't want to know her truth. He had his own to deal with.

It was bad enough that he lost the ability to sympathize with her plights. Like on the particularly rough days when she was tossed to the ground by the wealthy or when more than one man asked to buy her _other _flower instead of the pretty ones she was holding. Now a days... he would just watch numbly; reaction always too slow, delayed, or straight out forced.

"_ah…are you alright?... Need a hand?"_

Maybe he stopped feeling bad after the day he "saved" her from one of those men. A few months back he had packed up and left early one evening, and the streets were mostly empty. There was a small scream, and he looked back and watched her get dragged down a side street by a cloaked figure. He dropped everything and ran after them.

It was an opportunity for him.

Boldly, he followed them and yelled out to the man trying to remove her dress by threatening to alert the authorities. It was serendipitous that the man was distracted enough for her to break free and run. And it was another force at work that kept Oz standing there when the man was starting to charging at him with a knife.

He was going to die a hero that day.

And maybe his farther would finally look at him when he was tucked neatly in the cassette. Holding some of the pretty flowers that the flower girl donated in gratitude.

Would the man even buy him a cassette?

But of course none of that happened, and he had the flower girl to thank for that. The way she grabbed his hand that day…forcing his feet to run….

"_Oz, are you crazy? Why would you just stand there…its like…its like you wanted him to…"_

If only she didn't grab his hand…he wouldn't have to hate himself for wondering if he'd ever try to save her again. Would he do it again? Perhaps, if he were sure she wouldn't return the favor.

**:::::N:::::**

"_Master Vincent…."_

"…."

"_Ahhhem_…Master Vincent?"

Somehow those words startled his sleeping conscious causing him to lift his head up from the desk. He looked around in confusion for a moment, wiping the side of his mouth with his fingertips.

"What is it, Liam?"

"Mr. Spears is here to see you,"

He blinked once in surprise, and blinked again in something akin to hesitation. He cleared his dry throat as he hastily scanned his desk and stuffed his silver scissors in the top draw. In one swipe of his arm he cleared the little bits of cut up paper on the desk and let them fall into the trash.

"Let him in," he whispered, while fixing his long hair into a quick thick side braid and straightening his clothes out. He picked up a pen and put a random document in front of him the moment Liam left his office.

Vincent didn't look up from his "work" right away when William came through the door. He didn't need to. He knew that William would be holding a thin briefcase in one hand, while the other was straight down at his side. William's face would be serious, and when Vincent ever decided to make eye contact the man's eyes would be sharp and direct as always.

Vincent never particularly _liked _William. Even as an eight-year-old rich kid he carried himself with far too much significance and a hard temperament that was better left unexplored. One day, he had come over their house with his parents. William thought it would be funny to tell the maid's son, Kevin, all his snarky comments about how Vincent's eyes were a demonic atrocity. And he seemed to take pleasure in walking by and yanking out strands of his long blond hair.

When Gilbert found out, let's just say that he didn't take it well. And the fistfight that occurred between his brother and William was simply a precursor of what the rest of their relationship would look like after that. It was their first fistfight but certainly not their last. The memory was anything but foggy, because Vincent had spent the majority of that day trying to stop their father from giving Gilbert a spanking, and Kevin Regnard got a good laugh from it all. Meanwhile, William had left their house with a black eye and a missing front tooth.

He wore glasses ever since that day.

But that day wasn't a total loss. He fondly remembered kissing over all of Gilbert's wounds that night while the raven softly played in his hair….

Vincent finally looked up from his papers, forcing his mouth to smile his normal mirth smile, "What can I do for you today?"

Vincent shifted a little when William's cold eyes traveled down to his lips.

"A resupply has been requested," he said, pushing up his glasses.

"By whom?"

He walked closer, and Vincent casually tossed his braid behind his shoulder, "Aleister Chamber."

"Isn't he getting a tad bit greedy these days?" Vincent mumbled.

"Not without reason. His current inventory reflects the need. A few of the products were defective."

Vincent sighed and lean back in his high velvet chair, "Were they defective or did he _break_ them?"

"It couldn't be confirmed."

"Dare I ask how many replacements he wants…"

"He'd like six this time," William rested his briefcase on the desk and opened it. He handed Vincent the documents.

The blond pretended to look them over before he stood up and tapped the papers against the desk. He had high hopes to end this quickly, "Alright, he'll have the shipment by next Friday."

When he didn't hear the man give a final agreement he looked back up at him, forcing his mouth not to frown, "Was that all?"

"No it wasn't. When are you going to give me an answer?"

Vincent couldn't help but look away, how did he know the conversation would turn to this. His voice came out as a soft tired sigh, "I'll let you know…"

William leaned over the desk and gently retrieved the blond braid he was hiding behind his back. The man snorted, because the style obviously displeased him.

And when William was displeased with something…he fixed it.

Every time he undid a notch of the blond's hair Vincent suppressed a nervous shudder, and continued to stare at him in silence.

"I'm tried of waiting," leisurely, he coiled his fist upward and around his freed hair as if the thick blond locks were bandages he was using to wrap his wounded hand with, "Its been five years too long. I won't allow you to toy with me anymore..."

"I'm not aah-_hh" _his eyes slammed shut when William yanked at his hair painfully, fist now pressed against his scalp. William brought their faces closer. Some blond strands fell on the desk as cold lips were on his. Vincent felt his thoughts sink to a dark place so he used this chance to quietly open the top draw.

He wouldn't take this kind of treatment anymore…he didn't have to put up with this.

William must have sensed that something was amiss, because he pulled away and looked around. He leaned further over the desk, never once releasing his hair. William threw the draw open and dug inside, retrieving the shiny silver scissors.

He examined them with a flat side smirk before he pushed up his glasses with the scissors, after that Vincent closed his eyes.

He felt a cold sensation on his cheek, then pain, then warmth.

"You have one month to give me an answer. After that, I'll either take what I want or I'll be moving on to someone more…_accommodating_…"

William kissed away some of the blood on his cheek. Mumbling something about how red looked good on him, and warning him not to put any braids in his hair again. The next thing he knew his scissors where back in the draw and he was watching William get in the carriage from the window of his office, holding his hand against this bleeding cheek, he didn't even notice when Liam came in the room.

"Master…are you alright?"

"…"

"Should I alert Master Gilbert-"

"I'm fine, Liam. Prepare my carriage… I'd like to go shopping today."

"…Very well, sir."

"And bring me a drink as well…something strong," he said quietly, looking down at the blood on his fingers. Maybe red did look good on him, if he bought something red to wear...maybe Gilbert would like it too. That was a good idea actually...red would certainly bring out his eyes more...

**:::::N:::::**

He could have loved him once. Loved him in _that _way. The way that no one ever talks about, the way that makes your veins scream siren songs of yearning, but keeps your throat tied tight when you're at family gatherings and sitting at the nightly dinner table.

It was at that same dinner table that he would watch the way his brother's eyes narrowed with amusement. Glinting vibrantly in two vastly different colors; always pinched mysteriously and beautifully at the corners regardless of how slight his smile was. And each glance that he cast, seemed to say a million things and hide a billion others.

That gold eye of his, it was the color that affirmed their bloodline; it was familiar. The familiar was always comfortable, always reassuring of things that would remain stable and present. And yet, his red eye...it always seemed to be a glimpse into something far _deeper_, something foreign and alluring all in the same. It was dangerous, sinful, and secretive. In a backward way that's what made Gilbert so drawn to it. It called out to him, promising him a pleasurable suffocation that he could evaporate in…

It was also what made Vincent different _enough_ from Gilbert that it made it seem ok if Vincent snuck a small kiss on his lips when they lay in bed. Or nibbled and licked at his earlobe when he pretended to whisper something to him as they played with the train set on the floor in the family room.

Sure, it was possible at a point and time. He did love him...once. He wanted to die in those mix-match eyes. And sometimes he regretted not allowing himself to do that when he had the chance.

But the truth was - he couldn't. As they got older it rapidly became a more difficult desire to fulfill. Because the depths weren't as limitless as he once thought they were or as they might have been long ago. Everything about Vincent became entirely... _s__hallow_. To try and drown in his eyes now would be like trying to drown yourself in water that was a mere centimeter high.

Impossible.

Unfortunately, he couldn't even say there was a barrier blocking his entrance, because that would suggest there was something behind it. No, in fact there was not. The attractive surface…was all there was. And that's when Gilbert was able to slowly pull away. It wasn't the only reason...but it was certainly one of them.

Vincent was smart, because he tried to fill Gilbert's life with only himself, and the longer that happened the more Gilbert realized that no matter how long he fell for his brother, it was attributed to the fact that in their little world, there was ONLY Vincent. The blond promised to be everything, play every role for him so there was no need for anyone else.

And Gilbert happily let him play those roles, year, after year, after year...

The sad part was that up until recently he would still catch himself trying to die in those eyes. Testing the watery gold and red orbs to see if they finally gained enough depth for him to lose his last breath in. But that was only until….he learned that _life_ could be _so_ much better, _so_ breathtaking, _so _damn beautiful…

Life could be worth it.

Now he dreamt of eyes like lush green forest, the kind he wanted to explore, the kind that always had something new and lovely growing in them. Every emotion that flickered through those green eyes was like the freshest gust of wind, carrying the most pleasant fragrance on it. His eyes were so expressive, that even the most fleeting of looks roused Gilbert's desire to hunt down what that emotion was and capture it, study and admire it.

Yes, it was the first time in his life that he wanted to live in someones eyes.

That's why that day his hope turned into despair as two hours turned into four, and four into six.

And day into dusk.

Oz had not come.

Perhaps he shouldn't have been as upset as he was about this. If he told anyone how he was really feeling they would probably look at him strangely and tell him he needed help. But the reality was that he just couldn't get past that feeling that he was plummeting further and further into the ground as he sat against the windmill with an untouched picnic basket beside him.

In combination with this was the disgusted feeling he had that the logical alternative was to just go back home.

He couldn't. He didn't want to.

He didn't know what possessed him to sit down next to the windmill for as long as he did, as if he was waiting for the boy who he knew would not show up. But he still sat there passively watching his horse gaze as any animal would if left to it's own devices.

Worry plagued him too. He thought that it was possible that Oz was sick, and simply couldn't make it. But what made that scenario worst is that he couldn't even go check on him to make sure he was alright, he had yet to learn where the boy lived.

The second thought was much _much_ worst though…

He wondered if the town actually experienced another _Night of Voids_, and considered the grisly possibility that Oz could have been a victim. Swept away without a trace.

He stomped on that thought right away...everyone he saw that day had been acting normal. There was no way it could have happened without him realizing it.

**:::::**

He waited until the sun threatened to disappear before he found himself leading the horse down the small slop. Every step he took he was wishing that he could sleep through the next seven days so that next Friday would come sooner.

He was almost to the path when he heard the distant sound of wheels rolling across the ground and through the trees a flash of blond passed in his peripheral vision. It could have been anyone, and it could have also been a trick of the fading light outside but Gilbert followed anyway. He put down his picnic basket and tied up his horse. Quietly he walked after the person. When he came to the main path he instantly opened his mouth to call Oz's name but stopped short of making a sound.

He felt self-conscious suddenly, finally considering that Oz may have not wanted to see him anymore. But something was off about everything, and the strangeness of the situation halted his thoughts and redirected them.

The boy was pulling a shaky wagon behind him that had a few vegetables in it. And it was perplexing to see the boy dressed in completely different clothing…if someone could even call them clothes. He was practically wearing rags. An over sized, stained, off white button up shirt and patched up blue trousers that might as well have been dragging on the floor.

Gilbert continued to follow him.

He knew he shouldn't have, but he was too curious to keep himself ignorant any longer. This seemed like his only chance to at least find out one small piece of information about the elusive beauty. He knew Oz wasn't coming from a "well-to-do" background, but from what he was currently observing he felt new thoughts emerge: the boy might have been worse off than he first thought.

Gilbert stayed at a distance, and after ten minutes of walking he hid himself behind a large tree as he watched the boy enter a barely functional wooden gate. A little ways away stood a run-down farmstead that looked like it would blow over if the wind were feeling ferocious.

He watched as the boy looked up into the sky anxiously, as if checking the time. Then he watched Oz park his wagon and enter into a side door of the main house and disappear.

**:::::V:::::**

When he got home, his father was standing at the counter in the kitchen, waiting for his water to boil. By the way it looked the man had either just got back in or was on his way out.

Oz was late coming home, because he was late getting to work. And the need to put in overtime came from needing to make up for the lost profits. He prayed the man would not notice and attempted to head straight to his room without a word. However, as he passed him his father held out his hand.

Oh yes, how could he have forgotten.

Oz dug his hand in the back pocket of his slacks and drew forth…lint. His heart jumped in his ears when his fingers skimmed over one measly coin before sliding through the hole in his pants. The kettle whistled quietly on the stove as his anxiety climbed onto panic levels. He patted down every part of his body twice over before he was forced to face the current reality.

Slowly, _very_ slowly, he took the surviving coin out of his pocket and gently dropped it into the man's waiting hand. For the first time in ages he looked up at the man. He didn't know what to expect from the action, maybe he wanted to catch his father's eye for once, let him see just how sorry he was for making such a fatal mistake.

For some reason, the man continued to let the kettle shrill as he looked down at the single coin in his hand. The sound was becoming too piecing to be ignored and Oz wondered how his father's face didn't contort in discomfort from listening to it.

"Where's the rest of it?" Somehow, Oz managed to hear him over the screeching teakettle.

"I-it must have…I probably lost it on the way home."

"…"

Still his father would not look at him, the plan to catch his eyes failed. "I'm sorry…" green eyes sunk to the floor, face scrunching in audible displeasure as the screaming kettle reached yet another peak.

When his father spoke, he finally took the kettle off the stove. Notch by notch the sound dwindled to a wheeze, like someone who was finally losing their voice after screaming for too long.

"You are not to return home tomorrow until you make back what you lost. Plus the normal profits."

Oz nodded, it was a hard task but not undoable. Finally, Oz turned to go back to his room.

"I don't remember dismissing you…"

The blond closed his eyes, listening to the sound of steaming water being poured into a mug. He dug his nails into his palms, and turned to walk back toward him.

He stood in front of him knowing his moment to draw some mercy from the man had long been over. He let his eyes rest toward the kitchen table, that's when a shot of annoyance sparked in him. That damn tan moth from earlier was flying around the kitchen.

_Why is it still in here?_

He thought, while he complied with his father's order to remove his shirt. His heart raced every time he undid a button. And he cursed the missing buttons because that only sped him toward his punishment. Empty eyes were stuck on the tiny tan thing that was now crawling across the table.

His attention was taken when a damp dishrag was stuffed in his mouth and his eyes turned blurry.

"Turn around,"

He did, but looked back slightly, eyeing the moth one last time_._

_I gave you a chance to leave this morning…._ _Why would you ever want to stay in a place like this…?_

He heard the steaming kettle hiss in anger as it was lifted from the stove. The blond braced himself. Heart pounding, teeth locking down onto the cloth_. _He resisted the urge to shake his head at the foolish tan creature floating around the kitchen...the same one who was watching what was about to happen.

**:::::**

...at some point that night, he stopped screaming long enough to realize that Gilbert wouldn't be able to hold him for awhile...the burns on his back wouldn't allow it...


	6. In Mislaid Mornings

**::::::::::In Mislaid Mornings::::::::::**

It was a _Black Morning. _And the tears of lonely mothers flooded the streets. That sound drowned out everyone's thoughts as people scrunched their brow and began to forget their purpose for being in town that day.

Even the clueless were forced to acknowledge what had happened: last night had been a _Night of Voids._

Oz stood behind his vendor stand, half fidgeting in pain and half fidgeting in uneasy while he watched women clad in black walk with their husbands holding them close and hushing them. Their uneven steps led each mourning couple in opposite directions.

Some parents were headed to the church to ask for guidance, forgiveness, and mercy; cradling the single piece of coal they were left against tear-coated cheeks. While others marched toward the noble's house; the coal rubbed off in their sweaty, angry embrace.

There were rumors, you see. And depending on what you believed in it would determine which direction your feet carried you when you made the heavy walk across town. _The Voids _were believed to be demons taking the kids of the wicked; leaving coal in the child's place as evidence that the parents would melt in hellfire once death found them. An even wilder belief was that the coal _was_ their child.

And others swore it was the noble's fault, a conspiracy to control the growing population. Those people used their coal to crumble over rocks and throw though the pretty windows of high office officials. Some wrote signs with wet coal, demanding the nobles to give them their children back.

But in the end, all of their protest and prayers blended together in a kind of black noise. It swept heavy across the dusty streets and made windows as far as the countryside rattle lightly as the sound tapped at it.

No one would buy goods on a Black Morning. It was not the time to think of fresh vegetables, or a pound of cheese.

The mourners were busy mourning, and others were busy evading eye contact with them out of fear that they'd be next target whenever the next Night of Voids happened. The fearful would hold their children close to them, hurrying along when ever they passed a devoid-couple. The only ones who would make eye contact were desperate sellers, single pitiers with no children, and elderly folk who had long since watched their children grow up and leave them.

Oz always felt nervous and out-of-place on Black Mornings, he felt uneasy when devoid-mothers gazed longingly at him, questioningly. As if asking, "_Whose child are you? Why were you __spared...What makes your parents any different than me?"_

Oz would lower his green eyes in guilt. If he could, he would tell them that he didn't know why he was spared; because it was true there was no difference between him and the other children. It couldn't have been his age, because children as old as nineteen had been taken before. And since he was in the later half of his fifteenth year he knew that that wasn't the reason.

He once thought it was about class status, that no one would bother taking the children of the very poor. Regardless of whether it was humans or demons taking them. It wasn't too far fetched to think that The Voids had a preference…. after all, you never heard of cases when very rich kids were taken.

But as he looked across the street, that class status belief was hard to uphold. It was painfully obvious who else was missing. The flower girl had yet to show up to work…and the girl had never missed a day. Maybe it was a coincidence. It was easy to jump to conclusions on a Black Morning.

But still, it was concerning to see her absent.

To distract himself, Oz looked down at the un-bought vegetables and contemplated packing up and reloading his rickety wagon. There was no use sticking around. And because his father had never come home the night before, he knew the man most likely wouldn't be back until the next day. Even if he did come home later that evening he couldn't get too upset with Oz, it wasn't his fault that it was a Black Morning. Not only that, but he was starting to shake from the pain in his back, and the hot sun wasn't helping him feel any better.

When he looked back up he saw yet another couple walking together, this time they were headed toward the church. So far, this would make a total of four couples that he seen that morning.

It was hard to tell how many children were taken the night before. That information wasn't made available until the next day when people would read the names of the taken children in the paper…and that was only if _everyone_ was reported. It was possible that some children's names didn't get into the list.

Until then, one could only estimate based off of how many clad-black parents they saw, or approximate it by how many different cries echoed throughout the city.

**:::::N:::::**

Long blond hair fanned out over the armrest of a blue velvet lounge chair. A lazy left hand lay dramatically over mix-matched eyes while long legs rested sloppily on the other end of the couch.

The man groaned, a bottle of the finest red wine dangled from his right hand. The same hand that made the bottle touch the floor since his limp arm hung lifelessly off the side of the lounge cushion.

"Liam, are the guards out there? Tell them to get those _peasants_ away from the gate. Their constant droning is giving me a headache."

"I'll tell them, Master. But I'm not sure there's much they can do as of now. They usually clear themselves out after a few hours."

"Tell them anyway. Those people are like pigeons…so loud and unpleasant."

"Yes sir," the bespectacled servant left the sitting room quietly, casting a small glance at the other man in the room. The one that wouldn't leave the window ever since he found out it was a Black Morning. After a minute, the raven pushed away from the window with a determined sigh. He went over to the mahogany coat rack and put on his black overcoat.

"Stay in today," the blond said through tired vocals, letting the bottle rest on the floor before curling up in the lounge chair and facing the back of it, "Its safer."

The raven ignored his brother, looking in the gold-rimmed mirror as he fixed his black hat.

"Don't be a fool about this, Big Brother. If you're spotted they'll probably attack you…"

"I'll take my chances," the raven mumbled, half regarding the surge in the yelling outside. They had thick walls, though, so the sleepy quiet in the manor wasn't completely challenged.

Although Gilbert couldn't see it, Vincent turned his eyes up in his head, "A peasant boy isn't worth the trouble…no matter how _pretty_ he is."

Gradually, Gilbert turned to look at the owner of those underhanded words. Before he swiftly walked over to him, standing over Vincent and snatching up his collar. He fisted it in one hand, lifting his brother's upper body off the lounge until they were face to face.

"What would you know about _human_ _worth_, when everything you value comes in expensive packages and glass bottles?"

Vincent's eyes rounded out innocently, "That's not true, Big Brother. What I value the most is standing right before me," Vincent tilted his head to plant a kiss on his brother's smooth cheek, but Gilbert tossed the blond back to the lounge before he could. Leaving the blond sprawled out and ruffled like dirty laundry. When Gilbert made his way back to the door, he paused to speak.

"…Did William put that scar on your cheek?"

"…"

"...Fine, forget I asked," he was gone a moment later.

Vincent rolled over on his stomach and looked over the armrest at the door his brother left out of. He blinked back the watery sting in his eyes, and converted the feeling into a small laugh instead. He reached for the wine bottle, sipping it down with a few weak laughs until the bottle was suddenly as empty as he was. Slowly, he swung his legs over so that he was sitting normally. With his back resting against the cushions he looked upward toward the ceiling.

The way it was starting to spin made the fake laughs die in his throat.

**:::::N:::::**

He had to know. Because there was no way that he could rest easy until he did. Today was Wednesday, which was closer to Friday than Monday, but forty-eight hours was like a lifetime when you were wondering whether or not someone could have been taken by The Voids. Gilbert wanted to check on Oz right away, and the anxiety of not knowing if Oz was amongst the taken was killing him.

Like most people in Yawnington, he wasn't expecting to wake up and find out it was a Black Morning. As frequent or infrequent as such an occurrence could be, people generally keep the fear of it happening in the back of their mind. No one went to bed thinking that that would be the last time they ever saw their children and friends again.

Everyone was aware of the possibility of it happening but such things happened so sporadically that there was no way to predict it. So it was a concern that operated in the background. Well, at least it was a concern for most of the population…not everyone had to worry about their homes being struck by a Night of Voids. Gilbert was "fortunate" enough not to be part of the social class of people that it happened to. That was half the reason why there were people raging at the front gates. He couldn't blame them…. it wasn't fair that the rich were somehow protected from such things.

But still, in terms of knowledge he was like most people, he didn't know why, when, or how a Night of Voids happened, he just knew it was an epic tragedy when it did…

And although no one would have assumed this to be true, even he had personally felt the impact of what The Voids were capable of... and in no way was he in a rush to see it happen again.

The thought made him urge his horse to move faster. He wanted to see Oz…and soon.

**:::::**

Gilbert had timed the day accordingly. When he showed up at St. Peter's Academy it was during lunchtime. Boys from different grade levels were scattered across the grass eating their lunch and joking loudly with one another.

Like a bounty hunter, Gilbert probed the crowd and asked questions. Each group of youth looked at him strangely; the surprise on their faces was obvious.

_What is a noble doing at our school?_

_I know, especially on a day like today. Don't they usually hide in their mansions…._

_Isn't that one of the Nightrays?…gee, he sure is brave to be out today…_

Like little chatterboxes, they gossiped like girls and peeped on like baby chicks; each one gawking at him like a wide-eyed owl.

"Do any of you know Oz Vessalius?"

"Nope. Never heard of him,"

He moved on to the next group and the next one, still the same twisted expressions the same awe struck yet confused glances. Until a black haired boy finally approached him.

"Excuse me, Lord Nightray? Are you looking for Oz?" The boy adjusted his glasses very round glasses in a similar fashion to another bespectacled acquaintance of his. In fact, the boy's black hair and practical aura was uncomfortably familiar.

Beyond that thought, Gilbert still tried to keep the desperate hope out of his tone, "Yes, have you seen him? Was he in school today?"

The boy sized him up, gaze a bit scrutinizing for someone of his age group, "No...Oz doesn't go to this school."

Gilbert felt his expression drop, "But isn't this-"

"Saint Peter's Academy? It is. But Oz never went here," he said as a matter of fact.

Gilbert swallowed deeply, pushing down his disconcerting surprise. Gold eyes wandered over to the rest of the students, some of them were heading back in the building. He took a silent deep breath, trying to steal a minute to process this new information - Oz had lied to him, and what was worst was that Gilbert had somewhat expected this outcome…

"Would your name happen to be Leo?" he asked before the boy had a chance to leave.

"Oz must have mentioned me then…"

"He has. He speaks well of you."

"hmm," the boy shrugged one shoulder impartially, "I guess that's good to know,"

Another boy called out to him, "Leo, come on. Class is starting soon."

"I'm coming,"

"um…Do you know where he'd be right now?" Gilbert asked finally, hoping for more information.

"He's working in town on Lacuna Street. You might be able to catch him before he goes back home."

Gilbert nodded gratefully and thanked the boy before heading to his horse.

"Lord Nightray…?" the boy called.

"Yes?" he mounted his horse, waiting for the boy to walk over.

"Although its not my place, I'd like to request that you refrain from hurting my friend. You may not know this, but…he's a lot more fragile than he appears."

Gilbert's expression turned bewildered, "Why do you think I'd hurt him?"

When the boy tilted his head and looked at him with a condemnatory stare, Gilbert felt his heart beating nervously. What in the world did the boy know about him?

"I think we both know why I think that. Unlike most people in town, I know you're not the most moral person in Yawnington," he adjusted his glasses once more, "Moreover, I'd appreciate it if you left Oz out of all of that…but I know you're probably not planning to spare his feelings" with that said, he finally tuned to leave, and Gilbert forced himself not to retort the way he initially intended. Instead, he asked an Oz related question.

"Wait…tell me why Oz isn't in school anymore."

"You should really be asking him that. But if you have to know…it isn't because he wanted to leave. Oz always loved school. He was smarter than everyone in our grade…But then one day…" the boy's long pause turned into a heavy huff, "Look, you'll have to ask Oz the rest, I've already said too much today,"

The boy left with a confident stride. Gilbert watched him leave feeling as though he had too much on his mind…too many questions and too many uncomfortable feelings. Who was this boy? And why did he seem to have genuine knowledge of things that Gilbert would rather take to the grave.

He didn't fancy the way this was turning out at all.

**:::::V:::::**

He was ready to finish destroying the damn thing.

It was the third time his small wagon tipped over. The wheel was far too uneven to keep it balanced anymore. Luckily, the road was empty of passerby, which saved him from a large helping of embarrassment. He gave the old thing a hard kick of anger with the heel of his boot, causing more vegetables to roll father away from the toppled bag inside.

Oz looked at the mess, feeling sweat on his forehead and the grime of vegetable dirt on his hands. Every time he bent over to pick up a vegetable his back stung in a way that made him feel like he was tearing the red burn marks open once again. Even though it had been five days since he got the burns, they still hurt in a way that made his hands tremble. Even now, his nights were mostly sleepless because of the pain. And throughout the day, it was still necessary for him to wet a sheet with cold water and lay it across his bare back like extra skin.

He swiped his hand against his forehead and plopped to the ground for a moment, drawing his knees up to his chest. He stared emptily in front of him, not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the situation. He supposed the decision came down to which action would bring the most relief to his frustration.

"Oz!"

He filled with dread when he heard his name called by that soft but deep voice he loved. He closed his eyes, and prayed he was dreaming.

…_This is _not _happening right now…_

Hesitantly, he turned his attention to the approaching black horse and slowly got to his feet. His thin legs jerked invisibly beneath him as if they were on the verge of running away. Pain prickled down his back as the itchy hot sunlight pressed against his shirt, irritating the sensitive but hidden skin. And the cooling sweat made the rest of his body feel crawly and damp. He felt the way he looked…unkempt and dirty.

He backed up when the horse stopped in front of him and he watched Gilbert jump down.

He licked his lips, right arm crossing over his chest, hand now rubbing his left arm in shy awkwardness, "Gil…what are you doing here?" Somewhere he wondered if the dark circles under his sleepless eyes looked worst in the sunlight.

"I was worried about you…"

"Oh…"he felt humiliated as he stood before the man, he didn't like being caught off guard like that, looking his absolute _worst_. His dirty brown boots made him overly conscious of his feet, and his over sized shirt with the gray stains and deeply ripped sleeve made him want to hide his whole body in the bushes.

"I'm fine. You should head back though…I know it's dangerous for you to be out right now," Oz said. His mood was plummeting for some reason. In general, yes he was happy to see Gilbert; he had missed the man terribly. But on the other hand he didn't know how to feel about the reason why he was there.

The Night of Voids was something that commoners had to suffer from, something the upper class only heard about after eating a late brunch, or placing an order to have a broken window fixed (broken by conspiracy theorists and protesters). But besides losing a bit of income _(if _in fact they had to replace windows) that was the only thing they lost. To the rich, a Black Morning was just another day, albeit an annoying one. They didn't understand what it meant to lose a loved one to such an event.

That's why he didn't know if he should feel ashamed, angry, or pitiful in the man's presence. Their realities were so vastly different it seemed. And the evidence of that was now completely exposed; down to the ill-fitting slacks the boy was wearing. Gilbert would surly see the truth now…well some of it. Maybe there was no use trying to hide it anymore. But Oz still had some pride to keep; there was no reason to further tell on himself beyond what was apparent.

He bent down and began to fix the wheel on the wagon. And Gilbert stooped down beside him.

"Let me help you with that-"

"Its OK" Oz spoke rather sharply, "I got it,"

Even if his tone was off-putting, it didn't stop Gilbert from gently taking his chin and forcing eye contact, "Don't be so stubborn," he said seriously. It was in that moment that Oz wondered if it was possible to be absolutely irritated and completely overtaken with lovesickness at the same time. But still, he pulled away from the soft touch and they both fixed the wheel and then silently loaded the vegetables back onto the wagon.

Once they were finished, Oz wiped his dusty hands against his pants-leg, irritation still very much in his voice, "You don't have to try so hard, you know…"

"What do you mean?" the innocent confusion Gilbert had was making it hard for Oz to stay annoyed.

"I mean…you don't have to worry so much. I've survived six Night of Voids before this."

Gilbert shook his head, "That doesn't mean you can't be taken in the future."

Oz shrugged apathetically, beginning to adjust his wagon in the direction of his so called home.

"Why aren't you in school?"

Oz turned to look at him, raising a thin brow with an expression that revealed how vexed he was at being asked that question, "…I wasn't in the mood to go today. Is that a crime?" he threw the words at him in a challenging tone. An onlooker would surely think he was a smart-alec by nature, and a bold smart-alce at that - because a sensible person would never speak to a noble in such a way.

But the sensitive and shy Gilbert he was use to surprised him when he caught those words and crumbled them in his face, "The question was literal," the raven said with mild scolding.

If at all possible, Oz's brow went from being locked downward in vexation, to spreading out and rising upward in shock.

How the hell did he just get caught?

He didn't have to wonder for too long since Gilbert quickly filled in the blanks, "I went to the school to check on you. Then I bumped into your friend Leo. Why did you lie to me?"

If he wanted to run from Gilbert before, now he truly wanted to snap his fingers and disappear. He felt himself take a shaky step backward, forgetting to pull his wagon with him. He just couldn't deal with all this right now.

"We have to talk about this later. I have to go."

"Every time you think I'm getting too close to the truth you try to run away from me."

Oz forced his feet to stand their ground, "I'm not running. And anyway, _so what_ if I lied, why does it matter to you?! It's not _your_ education. And I'm not complaining am I? Or does it bother you that I'm not as educated as you thought?"

"…Oz"

Oz was almost seething in defensive anger, and by the time the silence caught up to him, he wanted to take back every word he said to the man that day. Gilbert looked utterly dejected, soft gold eyes looking puzzled and helpless. And all Oz could do was try to figure out what in the world caused him to lash out at Gilbert the way he had been. Surely any chance he had to be with the man was now a distant fantasy. Nobody would want to be with someone who lashed out when all you did was care for them.

So that only meant one thing. It was true after all...even without the social differences being factored in…he still didn't deserve Gilbert even on a basic level. Not his kindness, his sincerity or his attention.

On the other hand, Gilbert did deserve an apology. And even that was getting caught up in Oz's breath as he grappled with this new realization; he truly screwed up the best and brightest thing he ever had.

"Gil, I…" he took another wobbly step backward and somehow got his feet tangled in the wagon handle. Down he went, but his reflexes were quick. He twisted himself around in mid-fall so that he landed on his knee and not on his burned back.

Fresh blood oozed like ink from his knee, and the pain didn't actually hit him until the area of his pants leg was turning a dark red color. It happened so fast that he wasn't sure of the exact moment when Gilbert had suddenly appeared kneeling in front of him. Mindlessly, he sat on the ground and watched as the man took his calf and carefully rolled up his slacks; revealing the deep scrape.

Without an ounce of hesitation, the man pulled off the white silk ascot from around his neck and began to wrap it firmly around Oz's knee. But Oz protested.

"Don't use that… you'll ruin it,"

"I hardly care about this thing," he said, tying it firmly and looking over his handy work, he let his hand trail over the area, twinges of sadness in his eyes for some reason, "Let me take you home."

"I'm fine, really…" the man looked up at him, then carefully pushed his blond hair from his eyes. After some time he used the back of his fingers to stroke down the length of his cheek. Oz felt all his defenses lower and falter into smoke.

Damn…how his missed this man, and how badly he regretted everything he said. In spite of all that had taken place... Gilbert was still treating him so lovingly…

Oz felt himself shudder, finally surrendering to the man. He nodded against the raven's hand, closing his eyes and turning closer into his touch. He wanted to bask in the affection for as long as he could. And the sudden urge to embrace him was overwhelming and futile all in the same. To embrace him would mean that Gilbert would hold him too...but it was physically impossible now. He felt his stomach turn with hatred when he thought of how his father caused this.

The irony of it all was just a reminder that he was so underserving of such treatment. But _oh_ how could he pull away from it? He couldn't...not when his heart ached and bled the way it was, and certainly not when Gilbert began to lean forward and kissed the space between his eyes. Did he just hear himself whimper?

It was good that the man kept the affection light and simple. Because when he pulled away a moment later Oz had already decided that if Gilbert was going to hold him, that he would fight through the pain just so he could feel the man against him again.

At some point, he shook of his daze enough to allow Gilbert to help him off the ground. Gilbert helped Oz sit on the horse but walked beside it instead. He pulled the horse along while the other hand pulled Oz's wagon.

**:::::**

The closer they got to his house, the more Oz realized he was still holding in reservations about letting Gilbert see where he lived. Now that the raven knew some of his "true form" and seemed unfazed by it, then maybe he wouldn't be fazed when he dropped him back home and saw how rundown that was as well.

He was surprised that the man found his way without Oz giving him directions. It left Oz considering the possibility that Gilbert may have followed him home on a previous occasion. The thought was endearing and made Oz blush a bit. It also explained why the man didn't seem surprised to see him dressed in rags...

But too soon came that difficult moment that Oz had done everything to avoid since the first day he met Gilbert.

To invite him in or to not invite him in?

The answer would have been easier if he knew his father was home, but the man never came home that previous night. Usually, if he stayed out all night he wouldn't be home until the following evening, sometimes he would be gone for two days in a row; taking care of church business no doubt.

When Gilbert gently helped him to the ground Oz still hadn't come to a decision right away. They both walked over to his kitchen door and his stare had been thoroughly fixed on the three tired wooden steps. At least two whole minutes passed before he mumbled out a precarious invitation.

"Umm…my father's not home. So you can come in if you want."

"If you don't want me to-"

"I do. After all, you did help me all the way here; the least I could do is offer you some tea," Oz put on the best smile he could, "Besides, you know enough about me now…so there's really nothing to hide."

But that was a lie. And Oz hated himself a little more knowing that he was still willing to withhold information from his beloved raven. There was plenty more to hide, and showing Gilbert his home wouldn't necessarily uncover the truth either.

A quiet home was like a painting of a landscape - you can take it for what it is, or try to image what happened there. But you would never really _know_ what had happened the moment the artist painted it, or what happened before the artist got there…or after they left. In the end, a painting was a painting, and it would stay that way as long as the image was unmoving…just like a quiet house would stay that way as long as there were missing inhabitants.

Furthermore... a home had no real history unless someone provided one. Anything besides that was speculation. And Oz was not planning to elaborate on anything anytime soon.

That was the thought that encouraged him to finally take a deep breath and open the door.

* * *

Don't worry HH fans...I'll be updating that one soon :)

Thanks for all the support everyone.

-Rage


	7. On Absent Afternoons

**::::::::::On Absent Afternoons::::::::::**

He was caught in staring session with every aspect of the room around him. His eyes floated from the small wood table in the middle of the kitchen to the empty shelves that lined the dull walls. Gilbert lingered at the door. The farmstead felt much smaller inside than it looked on the outside. Although it was clean and somewhat furnished, the lack of décor was discomforting and seemed more of a forced state of being, than a byproduct of "simple living."

His stomach was turning slightly. And it wasn't just the décor that had him stalled at the doorway. There was something else in the house with them; not someone, _something_. He was surprised and turned off by how quickly he noticed it.

Now, this is not to say that Gilbert was a believer in what some call the "supernatural". Ghouls and ghost were rubbish concepts to him – _bullshit_ as some would say. But he was in fact a sensitive person and picked up on atmospheric shifts quite easily. Like the tense energy that was left behind after someone stormed out of a bitter argument. Or the dead staleness that would cling in the air after someone died. And this energy, whatever "this" was…he didn't like.

But it also baffled him. The energy was deathly, destructive, and deceptively heavy. Deceptive only because after the initial weight sunk in around you, you quickly realized it was sickeningly hollow. But the strangest part was that the energy lacked a source. There was no one in the house with them. No one was sending an angry glare at him from the corner of the room, and no one seemed to have recently left the home either.

"You can sit down,"

A shy voice said to him. He turned his eyes to Oz who looked at him briefly before busying himself again. He hadn't noticed it before, but now that they were in the shadowy house he saw how pale Oz was. His pretty green eyes seemed sunk in and dull- as if all his color was washed out upon entering the house. He looked tired and fragile. And his movements seemed laborious and inflexible.

…_I wonder if he's in some kind of pain?_

The boy's back was turned toward him as he reached around the counters and grabbed the things he needed to make tea. Gilbert chose to take a closer look at him. He noted how large the boy's clothes were, how his body drown in the ratty fabric. It wasn't regular thinness…he was underweight. And from what Gilbert could see of the naked shelves he had an idea as to why- but he wasn't too sure.

_Maybe all the food is in the cabinets…_it was only right to give the benefit of the doubt_._

Right now, Oz was a ghostly beauty. He was insipid… like a person standing on the edge of a fainting spell.

"Is this the first time you've been in a house as small as this?" Oz asked lightly, back still turned as he hesitated to pick up a kettle off the stove.

Gilbert finally made a move to sit at the table. It took everything he had to keep himself from walking out - and taking Oz with him.

"No, I had a friend once. I used to go over his house a lot when we were kids."

The boy lit the stove and put the filled kettle on it, "Really? Are you still friends with him?"

"ah…no. He went missing a long time ago."

"…He was taken by the Voids?" Oz asked in a quiet voice. He turned his head slightly, meeting Gilbert's eyes with sad disbelief, Gilbert nodded in response.

"I'm sorry, Gil. I had no idea…I never thought…" the boy trailed off, so Gilbert picked up where he left off.

"- That wealthy people had commoners as friends?"

"Yeah…"

Gilbert gave a "no harm done" smile, "Its rare but it happens. He was the son of one of our maids. She would take him to the manor with her on weekends and I kept him company while she worked. My father didn't seem to mind and he let me go over his house too."

"I must have been about nine years old when I noticed that she wasn't coming to our house anymore. No one would tell me why when I asked, and then I over heard the adults talking. They said she had killed herself after a recent Black Morning we had. It didn't take much to figure out the rest…"

Oz had a far away look in his eyes, "What was his name?"

"…Kevin Regnard."

Oz walked toward the table, hand running through his hair cautiously, "Now I know why you seemed so worried about me earlier…"

"Yes, that was part of the reason."

After a moment or two of reflective silence, the blond spoke, "Hey, do you mind waiting around for a few minutes? I need to get cleaned up."

"Of course, take your time."

"Okay… I'll be right back then."

No sooner had Oz left to head back outside was Gilbert up and heading toward the cabinets. A good guest would mind their manners and mind their own business. But curiosity could be a breeder of rudeness and the sister of snooping. This home he was sitting in screamed deep poverty on so many levels. But to Gilbert, the only way to know that was to check the main areas.

With each cabinet he opened the only things he found were dust and a jar of old pickles. He shook his head at the discovery. What did they eat? There was no icebox so that already ruled out milk, meats, and cheeses, no canisters of dried berries, no fresh fruits, no canned goods. And the bread in the breadbox was so hard it could break a thick sheet of glass. Even the mint tea leaves in the container were home grown, which was fine… but…

Did they only eat vegetables? Perhaps they didn't eat meat. Then Gilbert retracted that possibility. He had watched Oz eat meat in the past…

With new concern, he moved on to the rooms toward the back of the house. When he got there two doors greeted him, one at the end of the small hall and one in front of him. Turning his attention to the door closest, he noticed something move. A moth was camouflaged into the wood, crawling slowly near the knob. He paid it no mind and proceeded to open the door.

By the time it was cracked open he stopped suddenly. He was unnerved, that feeling from earlier overtaking him. He shut the door abruptly.

"Um…is something wrong?"

Oz was standing off to the side looking a bit panicked. He had changed his clothes; a cream button-up, pressed khaki shorts, and soft black loafers. His hair was slightly wet and messy but it looked very good on him. And the few minutes he must have spent outside helped breath some life into his pale complexion. When Gilbert really thought about it though, he hated to think that Oz felt ashamed of his previous appearance. It didn't matter to Gilbert what clothes he was wearing.

"Sorry…I just, let my curiosity get the better of me."

Oz smiled softly, a blush waking up his cheeks, "Don't worry about it. Do you want to see it?"

Gilbert's mouth went dry, "This is your room?," he looked back at the door.

"Yeah,"

The raven was crestfallen. But he quickly forced himself into a state of denial. That feeling he felt through the house radiated from that room especially. But there had to be some kind of mistake.

Maybe Oz's secrecy was making him jumpy; maybe he was feeling something he created himself. Yes, that could be it, a type of self-fulfilling prophecy...by constantly suspecting that Oz was hiding something important, Gilbert was creating that negative energy. Going into the room was possibly going to feel like the most normal thing in the world. Or not…

"I'd love to see it."

The boy was on the verge of a big smile before it was sharply cut off. The screaming of the teakettle had Oz covering his ears and hammering his eyes closed. He stood frozen in place…mumbling something that Gilbert couldn't catch over the noise.

Concerned, he walked toward the blond reaching out to him, "Oz?"

"..orry.."

"Oz?"

When he touched his shoulder, the boy opened his eyes, "Sorry. I'm sorry…Gil. I really…hate that noise… Let's have some tea, then I'll show you around some more."

The blond looked completely shaken. Confused, Gilbert followed Oz back into the kitchen. He was pushing down his alarm at the boy's reaction, and also the realization that the further away he got from Oz's bedroom door, the better he felt.

Briskly, Oz silenced the kettle. And when a new quiet took over the room Gilbert sat back at the table. He decided to focus on the delicate way Oz poured the hot water and the tiny sound of the spoon clanking against the porcelain cup.

He spoke quietly as to not break the sudden tranquility, "Do you work in town everyday?"

"Most days. It's not so bad, though," he said while walking to the table and passing Gilbert his tea, "I like what I do and the customers seem satisfied with the food that I grow."

"What about school, do you miss it?"

The boy licked his pale lips briefly before he spoke, and Gilbert noted that he did that often. Thinking back, the action always appeared before a lie, "No, not really." Oz looked down and picked up his teacup, "I was the one who decided to quit going,"

Gilbert fought against the urge to demand the truth from him, knowing that Leo hinted off to a very different version of the story. But he kept his voice and questions non-threatening and casual, "Oh…when'd you decide that?"

Suddenly, the boy looked up at him with a deep, sharp, forestry stare, and Gilbert felt that he was pushing his luck with getting information, "I left school when I was nine," green eyes cut away, voice borderline bitter, "I was never good at it anyway."

"Really? Leo told me you were always at the top of the class," he couldn't help but push a little more. This was a unique day for them; a new step for them. And he could not pass up this opportunity.

Oz shifted uncomfortably; bringing his drink closer to his body. And if Gilbert could see he would have noticed the boy cross his ankles under the table, "Yeah… well, Leo likes to stretch the truth a lot too."

"Or maybe you're being too modest…"

Oz huffed loudly, it almost sounded sing-songish,"Ok. Enough about me…tell me about your family. What are they like?"

Oz was pushing back now, and Gilbert hadn't prepared for the time that the tables would turn, although he should have, "I guess they fall somewhere between normal and strange,"

The blond let out a genuine laugh; it sounded sweet and tickled Gilbert's ears, "What kind of answer is that?"

"That's the only way I can think to describe them."

"Ok…if you're sticking to that, in what way can they be strange?"

Gilbert clouded his answer in a sip of tea, "Everyone's…obsessed with the idea of being a Nightray. They take too much pride in it."

Oz mused on this for a moment, "I know people like that. Well, I don't know them _know them _exactly. But I heard people who talk for days about how their great great _greaaaaaaaaat_ grandfather was this or that, and how their family name is famous and so on…it's not that strange."

"Hmn,"

Oz continued, "Is your brother like that too?"

All Gilbert heard in the question was the mention of his brother; every other word fell on deaf ears.

"Gil?" Oz questioned him again, concerned by Gilbert's sudden detachment.

"Huh?"

"Your brother? Is he like that too?"

Gilbert's eyes felt unfocused, "…Yeah," he cleared his throat, "What about your family, how would you describe them?"

It was clear that Oz didn't like the raven's evasiveness, but he still answered anyway.

"Small"

"How small?"

Oz yawned naturally; rubbing away at something he must have thought was on his face, "Umm…you probably guessed it already, but my mother passed away a long time ago."

Gilbert nodded empathetically, avoiding the words "I'm sorry" because he didn't know if the words would sound cheap and weightless coming from him, even though he really meant them. But Gilbert could relate completely, having lost his own mother to illness.

"I also have a little sister, but…my father sent her to a convent to study. I haven't seen her in three years."

Gilbert tried to keep the shock out of his eyes, he had no idea the boy wasn't an only child.

"He didn't want her to live a normal life?"

The boy hesitated, but didn't look like he was about to be dishonest. For that, Gilbert was grateful, "He didn't want to marry her off to someone who would stray from the faith."

The raven was deeply intrigued, "He's religious?"

After those words Gilbert didn't just see the change in Oz, he _felt _it. Green eyes went blank, and that paleness was coming back into his face. He gave a broken nod and Gilbert knew he struck a sensitive nerve, but he wasn't sure what that was. He took the boy's hands from across the table and warmed them with his own. Trying to get the color to flow back into him. But first, he couldn't bring himself to undermine the important, personal, and sad things that Oz was kind enough to share with him.

"You must miss them a lot..."

Life flickered back into those eyes, like the sun breaking through the trees of dead woodlands. Gilbert almost sighed in relief when the boy spoke.

"I do," he said, and then he brightened even more, "But my sister still writes to me sometimes. So it's good when I get to hear from her," he smiled and squeezed Gilbert's hands in reassurance. Gilbert returned a smile, removing some of the blond hair from that unreasonably pretty face.

"Are you ready to see my room?"

"Sure."

They both left the table making the short walk back to the room. The moth was still nestled on Oz's door and Gilbert caught the boy staring at it for a few seconds too long.

"Are you afraid of those?" he nodded toward the moth; ready to smash it if the boy said yes.

Oz laughed a little, "No. Its just…it's been hanging around for more than a week; I've kind of got use to it being here. But sometimes I forget about it and it surprises me," the boy turned the knob, inadvertently letting the flying thing into his room. It disappeared onto another wall becoming forgotten by them.

Upon entering the room Gilbert shut the door behind them and struggled to deny the fact that he had been right after all - that destructive hollow energy in the house was even stronger in Oz's room. He tried his best to ignore it.

**:::::V:::::**

"This is it," he announced, "I guess there's not much to see…" Oz walked over to his bed and sat down. "I used to share the room with Ada, but since she left it feels extra empty."

Green eyes looked back at Gilbert. The man seemed increasingly distracted and Oz wondered if he made a mistake bringing him into his room.

"Thanks for letting me come in here."

Oz sighed, "It's no problem. I wish there was more to look at."

Gilbert finally walked over to him. He kneeled down to check the boy's wounded knee.

"How is it feeling?"

"Better."

With his warm hands still around Oz's calf, the man looked up at him, gold eyes deep and pleading for something.

"Oz?"

"Hm?"

"Did you really decide to quit school…or did someone make you?"

**:::::N:::::**

The response he got was not the one he was looking for. Actually, it was not a response he even considered possible at that moment, but after a long silence he watched Oz tilt his head. And the next thing Gilbert felt was the warmest sweetest kiss being placed on his lips. Granted, the kiss was rather quick, but the heat in Gilbert's cheeks was as intense as it could ever be.

Gilbert looked away, blushing, flustered, and unfortunately wanting more.

"If you're trying to distract me, it's not working," he heard himself say, but it was a lie, and Oz knew that too.

"Are you sure?," the boy said in a mere whisper before touching his lips to Gilbert's again. When their lips met, Gilbert felt his mind clear out. His objectives erased, interrogation forgotten, and the odd energy in the room became a distant disturbing memory. He was consumed in this new touch they were sharing, deep, soft and a refreshing contrast to anything he had experienced previously.

He wondered if this was what innocence tasted like. If it was, was it always so honeyed? Was it normal for him to feel a rush of deprivation when their lips broke apart for air? And was he wrong to go back in for another taste.

He felt himself rising from the floor until they were eye level. When the boy looked at him, green eyes were shaded and swarming with a new want and curiosity. And it was then that Gilbert knew for sure that this angelic creature couldn't create an energy so hopeless and deathly. Gilbert loosely laced his fingers with Oz's. His need to deepen their next kiss was overriding his logic. Without thinking, he put one knee on the bed and began to slowly kiss the boy backward. At first, Gilbert believed he had succeeded in getting the boy to lie on the bed comfortably. But the moment the blond's back touch the bed he flinched and sat up. Instantly, guilt invaded the raven; he shouldn't have rushed him. He moved to sit beside the blond instead.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

Oz's eyes widened, "You didn't…It's not that at all. I…," the blond looked away, hand unconsciously moving toward his back.

Gilbert quickly put two and two together, "Are you wounded?" If he was, it would explain his ridged movements that day.

The raven didn't miss when the tip of a small light pink tongue darted out and swiped over slightly pink lips – a lie was coming, "Yes, but it's nothing major."

"...Can I take a look at it," another hesitation arouse, Gilbert could tell that Oz was deeply considering his options. With a whispered Ok, Oz turned so his back was facing Gilbert, and then began to unbutton his shirt.

Then he removed the material. Looking at the sight before him Gilbert couldn't withhold his loud gasp even if he used all his will power to do so. He shook his head slowly as he listened to the explanation.

"It's a funny story, actually. I accidentally poured the wrong bucket over me when I was in the bath….I must have been really tired or something. I can be really absent minded about things sometimes."

Incomprehensible.

There was really no other word to describe it. The degree of damage to his back didn't make any sense at all. How could the boy even manage to sit up straight with the kind of pain he must be in? He doubted that sleeping came easy to him and Gilbert wasn't just saying that because of the dark circles that surrounded his forests like eyes.

There were open red burns that were once fluid filled blisters, but had obviously drained down to scald skin. There were peeling parts as well, starting from the middle of his shoulder blades all the way down his back, but it stopped abruptly near his waistline. Gilbert touched a healed portion gently, and the blond tensed at the touch. The story Oz told was possible but something was off about it, Gilbert couldn't put his finger on what the inconsistency was. But he knew one thing for sure…

"Why haven't you seen a doctor?"

The blond quickly re-buttoned his shirt and turned to Gilbert with a big smile.

He shrugged, "It's over a week old. It will heal fine on its own."

Gilbert's voice took on a scolding tone; "You've been suffering with this for a _week_? Did you tell your father?"

Oz bowed his head, "No…I don't want him to worry. I knew I'd be okay if I gave it some time to heal."

"Oz-" Gilbert fell quiet when he heard a sound come from somewhere in the house, possibly from the kitchen. Oz stiffened beside him, a look of horror clouding his gaze.

He spoke urgently, "Gil, I'm sorry, but you have to go now."

"Why?"

"My father's home."

"That's ok, I'd like to meet him."

"Next time, Ok. He… doesn't take well to strangers in the house," Oz stood up beginning to change his clothes. Modesty was tossed away as he pulled off crisp garments and replaced them with their rundown counter parts. Although they were different than the ones from earlier they were just as ruined. Gilbert was bewildered by this but made no comment; he stored the behavior away to be analyzed later.

"I wasn't expecting him to come home so early,"

"Even if I leave in secrete, won't he be suspicious of whose horse is out front?"

Gilbert watched the boy slap his hand against his forehead signaling that he completely forgot about the horse. Even though the boy was up and pacing by this point Gilbert could see that his hands were shaking. He got up and approached him. Gilbert took the boy's hands into his own and placed a long kiss atop each hand. The shaking began to subside as Gilbert said his next words.

"I promise I won't be rude to him…"

"I'm not worried about that."

"Then what is it?"

Te boy sighed deeply, "It's nothing. You're right. I'm sure he'll be pleased to meet you," he gave a weak smile, one that looked more defeated than confident. He watched Oz take a deep breath, and then he walked to the bedroom door and opened it. Gilbert followed him out, anticipating this meeting between him and the mysterious Mr. Vessalius. As they entered the kitchen Gilbert's first image of the man was distressing. An incomplete flashback hit him and he stopped walking. As with other times that such reminders came to him, it triggered a throbbing pang behind his eyes, a forgotten memory was trying to be remembered but his physical mind couldn't handle it.

_Where have I seen him before…_

The man stood from the table and Oz spoke, "Father…this is Gilb-Lord Nightray,"

"I know who he is," the man said smartly, he was nearly as tall as Gilbert and Oz only slightly resembled him. If Oz's eyes were lively green forest then his father's were murky swamps. Gilbert concluded that the boy got his beauty from his mother.

Gilbert forced his feet to move. He walked over and put a warm hand on Oz's shoulder while the other was outstretched for a handshake.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vessalius."

The man returned the handshake with a firm grip, "May I ask why a noble would bother to visit my humble home today?" There was a damaging coldness about him -using polite words but deadpan tone to say them.

Trying to ignore the pain and stay on track, Gilbert prepared to respond to the question. He wouldn't say he was the best liar on the planet, but he was probably better than most. He attributed the ability to years of having to come up with quick explanations as to why Vincent was in the bathroom with him for so long, or why his lips seemed puffy and swollen by dinnertime.

"Your son was kind enough to retrieve my horse for me when it strayed away from the post in town. I offered to give him a ride home, and he was nice enough to offer me tea after my travel."

"How kind of you to bring him home," the man's voice and expression never changed. In fact, it was starting to sound like sarcasm. Gilbert noticed that the man did glance down at the hand that Gilbert had atop Oz's shoulder, but Gilbert refused to remove it.

"I hope it wasn't too much trouble for you…"

Gilbert smiled stiffly, trying not to grimace in pain, "No, not at all. In fact, I cordially invited him to a dinner we're having this evening at the manor. I'd be honored if he could attend-"

The man put his hand up, "That reward is quite unnecessary. I raised him to help those in need if and when he could. We're humble folk, Lord Nightray. We need no elaborate thanks for such basic assistance."

"I insist,"

Perhaps it was the severe migraine that was tunneling sharp and dangerous behind his eyes, but Gilbert was losing patience and he need to get out of there with a favorable answer. Oz needed to see a doctor. And if it weren't for the pain he would have taken the boy with him at that moment. But he knew where this was going and he refused to let the boy see him in his upcoming disabled state.

"Very well, if it would please you that much."

"It would. Thank you. I'll come back later this evening to pick him up,"

"Did you give your thanks to this man?" the man was clearly addressing Oz, but his eyes never ventured to the boy. It was odd…

"I did," he said meekly. After that, Oz turned to Gilbert, "May I see you to your horse?"

Gilbert nodded and headed toward the door with him. He was in far too much pain to give the man another handshake. But he still tipped his hat in feigned respect. After all... he couldn't truly respect a man who didn't keep food in his house for his child.

"It was good meeting you, sir,"

The older Vessalius nodded back to him silently, before Gilbert opened the door and was out of there. Even though it had turned extremely cloudy, the daylight still irritated his now sensitive eyes; it stung badly. And as soon as he was at the horse he had to stand there and rest his head against the saddle. His vision was starting to double and blur out. He groaned in pain, forgetting Oz was beside him.

He felt Oz's hand on his back. His voice sounding far away and full of concern, "Gil…Are you alright? You look sick," A raindrop hit Gilbert's cheek and he wiped it away before he turned to the boy.

"I'm fine, it's just a headache," he rubbed the side of the boy's soft cheek lovingly, knowing that his eyes must have been red and blotchy by now.

"I'll come and get you in a few hours," he said before he forced his weakening body to climb onto the horse.

"Are you sure you're Ok? Do you want to come inside and rest?"

Gilbert forced another smile,"Thanks, But I'm ok. See you soon," Gilbert dashed off, perhaps going faster than he should. He knew the rain would not help his unsteady travel home.

**:::::N:::::**

How he made it home that day, he did not know. Luckily, the protesters were gone by the time he had collapsed at the gate - the rain must have driven them away. His clothes were drenched in rainwater and mud, and his horse stood next to him constantly shaking its head to get the raindrops off its face.

He curled up on the wet ground, covering his head with his hands. He hated that he was almost in tears from the pain, and in far too much agony to try and get in the house. Luckily, a guard had spotted him and carried him in.

The first one to see him like that was Liam. Even though he begged Liam not to, the man still ran to pull Vincent from his meeting. Gilbert was on the couch shivering in a ball when he heard Vincent's icy voice.

"The hell are you standing around for, hurry up and get his medicine," he hissed.

He heard footsteps scurrying, and another set coming toward the couch, "Brother, I'm going to bring you to your room,"

"No. I'm fine…I _don't_ need you to help me," Gilbert snapped.

His brother ignored his stubbornness, helping the decrepit raven anyway. Vincent was slightly smaller than him, but he still lifted Gilbert from the couch and carried him to Gilbert's wing of the house. Finally, they entered Gilbert's bedroom. He placed his brother gently on the bed before he followed their usual routine.

Vincent quickly closed all the curtains to cut out the assaulting light in the room. Meanwhile, Gilbert struggled to remove his wet clothes and Vincent helped him dress in a pair of loose slacks and a new shirt.

He hated himself for needing his assistance. But ever since he was fourteen years old…ever since this "condition" started, the only one who he let take care of him was Vincent. The blond would give him his powered medicine by adding it to water. And then Gilbert would proceed to lay his head on the man's lap and let him trail his fingers through his black locks until the pain began to fade…finally pushing Gilbert into a deep dreamless sleep.

Somehow, they were still following this routine. Liam quietly came into the room, and Gilbert could faintly hear the sound of the medicine hitting the water. Vincent held his head up and forced him to drink the bitter mixture, and then the man moved to sit behind him; fingers exploring his hair tenderly. Gilbert was too defeated and drained to protest any longer.

"What kind of flashback did you have? What was it that you were trying to remember?" his brother asked, voice a bit nervous.

"I…saw someone familiar….Oz's father," Gilbert swallowed hard, still shaking and struggling to recall and speak at the same time, "I know his face. I just can't…I think he was in the courtyard with Glenn…_gahaa._"

"Hush now. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you to keep thinking about it. Just rest."

"I…I can't sleep for too long. I need to…"

Gilbert fought hard against the sleep that was approaching. He had things to do. He didn't have time for late afternoon naps. He needed to go back and pick up Oz. He needed to call a doctor to come over and treat the boy's burns, he needed to ask Liam to start cooking dinner so it would be ready by the time he brought the boy back with him….he needed…

**:::::N:::::**

For nearly ten years, this had been Vincent's way of making up for what happened.

If only his brother hadn't been eavesdropping that day…this could have all been avoided. There would have been no powdered medicine, no migraines, no memory lapse, and no repression.

No pain.

It wasn't right to blame it _all _on Gilbert, although it was _mostly_ his fault. Sadly, Vincent had a small part in it too. He had been upset that day, and was nearly screaming at their father. He was negligent and Gilbert over heard…he heard too much. But it was Gilbert's mistake for listening.

And honestly, how could Vincent keep living if his dear brother continued to stare at him the same way he did that day. Gilbert left him with no choice.

"_B-big brother…"_

"_Tell me it's a lie."_

"_First tell me what you heard?"_

"_It can't be true...it just can't be! You're all monsters, I hate you!"_

"_Brother -"_

"_Don't touch me, stay away from me!"_

It was almost involuntary. He knew all of Gilbert's hiding spots. And even if he didn't his whimpers were too loud; Vincent would have found him regardless. It was Gilbert's fault for being a crybaby and being so damn obvious. Maybe he wouldn't have done it if his father's heavy walking cane wasn't so accessible – the man should have never left it out. And perhaps he would have changed his mind if Gilbert's back had not been turned as he wept in the corner of the bathtub behind the curtain.

"_How could you do this to your own brother…"_

"_I did what was necessary. I won't let you try to corrupt him anymore."_

In the end, he supposed it all worked out, at least for a little while. His father gave up on his plans for Gilbert. Glen didn't come over nearly as often, and stopped training Gilbert as his replacement. And Gilbert woke up three days later with fragmented memories…and love in his eyes again.

"_Big Brother, you're awake!"_

"_Vincent? What happened?"_

"_You had me so worried. When you fell down the stairs I thought I would lose you. I don't know what I would do if I lost you."_

"…_Was it really that bad of a fall?"_

"_It was terrible…"_


End file.
